The Water
by ageingpapers
Summary: "But no hold did it find because in that moment I was emancipated. I was rebellious. For water is uncontrollable, unpredictable. And I was the water; the water was me. " Mags Kolp was twelve when the games began. Eighty seven when they ended. Canon, possibly OOC.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer; The Hunger Games belongs entirely to Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

They came in waves, surges of white white white and it was all so wrong. Red splattered the land, murdering the innocence of the pure, sending some into depression, others blood thirsty as the desire for revenge coursed through their veins. It didn't matter in the end. Those who died, died. As for those who lived, the results were varied. Sure, your body's moving, talking, walking; but that doesn't mean your soul's functioning. After all, your bodies just a body, it could have been born to another, but what resides within it, you personality, traits, soul; that is you. Few retained their true selves during the dark days, eyes still holding the truth, sans the glassy tinge of lost hope. I was one of those people. Or so I tell myself. It is easier to think of myself that way opposed to the alternative.

9.58 am ...

9.59 am ...

and one second

and one more

and one more

and 51 more.

It's a new regime introduced by the President.

and one more

Rumoured to be annual.

and one more

And all because of our rebelling and the dark days.

It's to remember, they say.

and three more

Well, no one's going to forget the death of 23 innocent children, are they?

and one more

10.00 am ...

The bell tolls.

It's time for the reaping.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Chapters will vary in length, dependent on time and place. Any queries or thoughts, criticisms, etc, please review. Will try to post regularly, at least once a fortnight. Thanks, again.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer; The Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins entirely. No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

We have time.

We have seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and decades.

And just like that, I can explain the duration of a particular event in a matter of eight words.

Sometimes, I wonder what the world would be like if it were all that easy. If eight words, from seconds to decade, could describe what the Dark Days were. You may say you are allowed eight words, but the Dark Days were subjective, and hence, you may end up with millions of voices. Those kids over in Thirteen, sitting up in heaven singing their shouldacouldawoulda's, they'll tell you that the Dark Days were 'The protestation and subsequent failure and fatal persecution.'

It was.

Those kids up in Districts One and Two, they'll tell you it was 'a grievous battle of mistake, misunderstanding and redundancy'.

And even that was true, in some aspects. Because although on the posterior, those Districts are damn suck ups, they are just doing what all of us are – trying to stay alive.

And then theres the kids in the Capitol. For them, it was 'a time of war in favour of protection.'

To their puny little brains that flourish on falsehoods and lies, it was.

But me?

I don't think I can put the Dark Days into eight words.

I was two when they started. I had a mamma, a dad, a gran and a gramps, as well as a whole fleet of aunts and uncles and cousins. I had people to fawn over me and I had people to love me.

I was twelve when they ended. My mamma had died, thank you Capitol deployed bomb. My papa had died, thank you peacekeeper for that KIA notice. Gran had died, thank you terror, gramps died, thank you broken heart. My fleet of family dwindled. Bomb, gun, grenade, blood, war, stupidity, terror, fear. When they finished, I was sent to the overflowing orphanage, where no one would fawn over you and no one loved you. Where breakfast was a quarter of cold fish and dinner was half a warm fish. Raw. Where dormitories of sixty plus stunk off piss and loneliness as screams were muffled in the darkness of night, lest matron come in and give you a beating for disturbing her beauty sleep. Where some girls turned to the higher up of the social ladder for a few pennies, and the boys snuck onto the 5am to 7pm fishing trawlers in the hope of getting something better.

199 words.

It still doesn't seem enough.

* * *

Matron stands in front of the line, barking orders and rallying names of her roll as one would do in the army. Tough as nails, she was Matron. I reckon that if she had balls, and I kicked em', she wouldn't flinch. I've been in the orphanage a total of eight years now, since I was four, and until recently, when I was unfortunate enough to walk into Matron stark naked in the showers after hours, I fully believed that as such may have been possible.

"Cindy!"

"... Yeah."

"And Marcus!"

"... Yep."

"Okay, that's the fifteens done, fourteens? Lucy?"

"... Present!"

Matron had this way of speaking, that was sorta a mix between barking and yelling. Not barking in the sense as to describe her tone, but literal barking, as a dog may do. Couple that with the hapless mannerism of intermittently scratching her legs with her feet, Matron was affectionately known towards the elder population of the orphanage as the bitch. And me of course. Though I couldn't be classified as the 'elder population', I was still kind of a 'wunderkid' in the orphange, credit to Matron's immense dislike to me, and was privy to a number of their jokes. See I was one of the first to enter the orphanage as a product of the Dark Days. Four years old with no one. I was skin and bones, smothered in rags and with a snuffly nose that beckoned every sketchy character to come take advantage of me. So I grew up quick. Became acquainted with the loyal friend of sarcasm quite well, and somewhat flourished.

"Lily?"

"... Yeah."

"Suzanne!"

"... Yep."

"Terence?"

"... Here."

"And, finally, Mags!"

The way she says my name sounds like she stepped in dog crap. Maybe stepped into it and inadvertently sent it flying to the heavens, only for it's ascension to be disrupted by her glorious bosom and amazingly fat face. That's the kind of bond me and Matron had going.

"... Yup Matron."

She eyes me in disgust, taking into account my attire. I had chosen a classic vintage look for my unlikely death bed; a thinning top that may or may not walk off my torso, credit to the immense quantities of salt that are determined to abide within it's fabric, and shorts which seam had decided to gift me with a wedgie traversing towards my intestine via my rectum. To cap of the look, my cozzies, which were still wet, had produced a fantastic wet bum look that emulated what one would look like if they were to wet themselves.

There were the kids who were the pride and joy of Matron, and then there was me.

"Okay kids, good luck. Now move!"

We split into two groups; the suckers – twelve to eighteen year olds, and the soon-to-be-suckers – eleven and under. In an orderly fashion we began to walk towards the square in two lines, Matron watching us as we did so.

I think that Matron was, in some twisted way, glad of the reaping today. There was the possibility that her meal portions could increase by two, and that the sympathetic yet stupid souls of the town would visit bearing gifts of fish casseroles and bread. Furthermore, the reaping would provide positive publicity for the orphanage, (if we were well behaved) which would result in money. And if, pray tell, one of us was reaped and actually made it far enough in the games, many may look kindly upon the orphanage for raising such a figure, which equals food and cash.

Matron gave me the stink eye as I passed. Obviously I had upset her plan.

The whole town square is filled with an anxious ambience, and all I want to do is scream at everyone for being such damn pussies.

But I get where their coming from.

Soldiers flank the footpaths, holding loudspeakers to direct the public. They're called peacekeepers, a strategy meant to enforce peace, yet those guns dangling from their arms don't look too peaceful. Hell, the Peacekeepers weren't skipping around giving out rainbow lollipops when peace was really needed; they were plucking off people like christmas turkeys. Hence, the hesitance and apprehension that accompanies the anxiousness.

But me? I'm not all that nervous. The generation going through this process was approximately around the emergence of the concept of the Dark Days, when every man and his dog thought; 'Hey, I need someone to continue my legacy. Oh, you're a woman, let's go and make a baby.' Although as such may not have proceeded in such a fashion, I can confidentially say that at the time of my birth parents were going nuts. So my name is one in hundreds. And as that creepy old guys said on the television; "May the odds be ever in your favour."

The line slowly eases forward as, one by one, as each child is allowed into the roped off area. At the front of the line, two peacekeepers sit.

"Name and age." The ladies voice is brash as she yanks my hand down to the table.

"Mags Kolp, 12," I reply. With skilled precision, the pair take my blood sample.

"There's no Mags Kolp here," She says as she pores over a small electronic device. "If you don't cooperate we have been told to enter your name again in the reaping."

I sighed. Seemed that the Capitol always had to have the last say, whatever the topic.

"Margaret," I huff.

"You may go" They say, before moving onto the next child.

Well that's lovely. The representatives of the Capitol's last words of wisdom and luck are; "You may go." Overly affectionate bunch they are, over at the Capitol.

I reach the twelve year old girl section as cautious smiles telling tales of great trepidation flutter over each face. Everyone is dressed up in their best dress', as if to make an impression when they're reaped. I mentally grimace thinking of my own attire. The seam of my short had definitely progressed in it's journey in spite of my insistent tugging, and my cozzies had now not only given me a wet bum, but also let rivulets of water run down my legs.

I was planning on making a beeline to the sea when this was done; the waves were perfect, the sun was out, and earlier I found a small section of reef that I previously hadn't snorkelled.

A high pitched squeal emitted from the microphone situated on the platform, interrupting my thoughts as a boisterous woman toddled up to the stage.

"He-llooo District 4!"

Silence.

"I am Coa Linth, your district escort!" Her voice has a strange lilt, distinct to the capitol, and she uses her hands to talk as much as she does her voice. Her skin is abnormally pale, as if dyed white, further exemplified by her neon orange lipstick and eyeshadow. Her hair is cropped short, a blood red, matching her outfit of sun-like colours. The overall effect is not that of beauty, but an inexplicable urge to check the poor lady into a mental hospital. I don't like her.

For at least twenty minutes, she prattles on about the dark days, district thirteen's obliteration and how the capitol is so good. So good, in fact, that to make sure the district's know this, they're going to kill their children. Yet, because of their kindness, they'll let one live and shower them with gifts. Great.

Everyone's name is supposedly entered in once, however as the games progress, each child will have an entry according to their age, meaning that next year, everyone will have two entries with the exception of the twelves, etcetera. There's also a volunteer system, which Coa explains, however I highly doubt that anyone with a level head is going to do as such.

"So," Coa continues, "Let us now pick our humble tributes. And remember, May the odds be _ever_ in your favour."

She wanders over to the big glass balls before plunging her hand into the many white slips, twirling her hand around as if to tantalise us. I see the faces of the girls in my section pale, and I wish mine would too, but it doesn't. I'm not scared. With a flourish, she pulls out a slip and totters back to the microphone, the irregular click clack of her heels matching the pounding heart beats of a district.

"Margaret Kolp," she drawls.

…

Damn.

Everyone sort of backs away from me as though I have contracted a plague, sweet relief brimming in their eyes, poorly disguised by fake pity. I begin to walk to the podium, head held high and shoulders thrown back as the crowd murmurs and mumbles, probably about the unfairness of a twelve year old being picked. I doesn't matter though. An eighteen year old girl could have been picked and it still would've been unfair. There's nothing fair about human sacrifice. I imagine Matron, secretly rejoicing of my selection whilst forcing expressions of distress. It almost makes me grin. Almost.

Coa beckons me.

"Margaret, congratulations!" she coos. I can see her scrutinising me, taking in my stick thin legs, washboard chest and attire. Impressions count, apparently. I bear my teeth in a sort-of snarl. Impression my ass.

"How old are you, Margaret?"

"Twelve," I say, monotone, "And the name's Mags, unless you want a fishing spear through your eye." Coa takes a step back as a few chuckles arise from the crowd. I don't like the name Margaret; it sounds like an old woman whose draped in moth-eaten shawls and hobbling along. And such is my vehement dislike that the entirety of the District knowns of it.

"A-alrighty then," Coa says, flustered, "Onto the male tribute."

Coa begins to teeter over to the bowls again, leaving me standing alone, lights flashing in my face, both the lens' of the district and camera's examining me. My breath suddenly gets caught in the back of my throat, as if there is something materialistic blocking it. An overwhelming need to hyperventilate claws at me as my knees begin to tremor, undetectable at the present moment yet gradually worsening so that is shall be obvious in the following minutes.

I am a tribute.

And despite my previous mantras and assurances that I am unafraid;

I am going to die.

With more speed, Coa picks a slip and speaks into the microphone;

"Otto Trawp."

A hulking figure emerges from the eighteen section. Broad shoulders, bulging biceps. And triceps, quadriceps, hamstrings, gastrocnemius', and just about every other muscle in the human body.

I am no longer just destructible. I am a twig.

Otto Trawp sidles down the aisle and onto the platform, a smug smile dominating his features, as though he was actually happy.

Otto is at least two times my height.

And four times my width.

Coa goes through her propaganda with Otto, asking the necessary questions. He is eighteen, happy to represent our district in the games and ready to succeed. I look out into the sea of people again, expecting to have all attention diverted, yet surprisingly, some cameras and eyes still linger on me.

And the gift of realisation graces me.

They want to see my reaction. They want to know if I'm a wimp of a child, likely to be killed immediately. They want to know if I am intimidated by Otto.

Which, clearly, I am.

In the reflection of a nearby camera, my face is contorted in an expression of obvious fear, and it looks as though I have wet myself. With hesitance, I glance down at my legs to see the few remaining rivulets of sea water from my still-wet cozzies run down my leg.

Fantastic.

But I couldn't let the public view me as weak, couldn't let my competitors prey on me before I even stepped foot in the arena. So I squared my shoulders like I did when I was first called. Threw back my head; giving the crowd free access to the viewing of my emotional state.

I was impassive. I was resolute.

I was unstoppable.

No.

With an air of confidence, I deliberately looked over to Otto and surveyed him, exaggerating my movements so that they would be obvious on camera. And I allowed a smile to bloom. One brimming with cockiness and arrogance, one of self-assurance and belief; all directed to Otto. I faced the crowd again, smile still plastered, yet subtly softer.

Now.

Now, I was invincible.

* * *

My momentary spectacle was broken when Coa motioned for us to shake hands, both her and Otto unaware of my display prior. With a massive smirk, Otto gripped my hand tightly and threatened the existence of my veins, before letting go. The new anthem of Panem played as District Four got their final look at us, and us at them.

But I was looking over.

At the ocean and sand and the islands. The green and the blue and the millions of shades that were sheltered in between, choosing only to emerge at certain times of the day. Creatures of the sea that floated and darted and splashed and frolicked. I would see it no more. And all I could feel was a sense of emptiness; that I wasn't exceedingly depressed or sad that I was going to die. I was scared, afraid of the inevitable pain and subsequent death; but I wasn't sad. I wasn't mourning the loss of family or friends, because I didn't have any. My life was lilliputian, a being easily disposed of. And the district was like me; give the sea and sand to time and nature and it survived, through struggles and triumphs. Give the sea and sand to humanity, and slowly it dwindled; died, remnants of salt or dust the only indications of what once was.

And that's all I would be.

For humanity had turned on me.

And I was powerless.

* * *

In the Justice building, the peacekeeper motioned for us to stay in the lobby whilst he checked on the rooms where we were to say our farewells. The room was newly built and lacking the customary smell of salt and the copious amounts of sand that were a given in the district.

I didn't like it.

Taking advantage of the momentary solitude, Otto grinned slyly, his face a pretentious ass, already certain of victory. It annoyed me. So I told him as such, watching as the grin faded. Slightly.

"A pretentious ass that's gonna win," he said.

That annoyed me even more.

"You know what?" I said as the footsteps of the returning peacekeeper became apparent. In one swift action, I brought my knee up to his groin, much like I had imagined doing to Matron countless times if she were of the opposite gender. The peacekeeper reentered, a confused expression on his face at the situation; me smiling sweetly and Otto hunched over, cursing softly with an extended finger waving in my direction. With a shake of the head, the Peacekeeper directed us to our separate rooms.

* * *

The room I am assigned in the justice building is beyond comparable. Swaths of velvet coloured deep purples and emeralds cover the floor and furnishings, with the room wall papered in rich reds, cornices tipped with gold.

I hate the damn Capitol.

With a sophisticated air of grace that has somewhat lacked throughout my short life, I jump onto couch and adjust the pillows accordingly. Each visitor supposedly gets five minutes, with the maximum amount of visitors overall being six. So, I have half an hour to rest on a couch that is, most likely, a seat which has not felt the warmth of a human buttock in too many months. I plan to comfort it in it's misery. I allow my eyelids to droop, for sleep to drag my into its reverie of darkness, when the door creaks. I turn my head sharply, eyes narrowed in a practiced glare to ward off the intruder. I wasn't expecting guests. I guess that my unique charisma isn't what my fellow twelve year olds are accustomed to. You could say I have a few admirers, kids who laugh when I show Matron up, but no one of consequence who could be bothered to give me a send off.

So, understandably, I was a little surprised when Miranda Trawp walked into the room.

Otto's sister.

"Hi." My hesitance was blatant, but Miranda's presence warranted as such, what with her enormously large shoulders and solid build. She was like a female Hercules on steroids.

"Hi." she replied, before sinking down into the couch next to me, an action that I definitely wasn't expecting. And then the flood gates open.

"You, you – you know? You have have … to help h-h-him!" she wailed.

"Uhh."

"No you have to! You have to p-pleeeaase!" Her pitched varied greatly, hence her speech sounding similar to that of a blue whale's. "He... he... he, he is the ooonly one who can ccoook mmeee my special fii..ssh fin- fingers! And you know? I .. I .. He's a great brother."

I grimaced in disgust as a rather large snot bubble bloomed from her nose. The human body was amazing.

"Alright," I said with a pat on the shoulder, more in consolidation than agreement.

And with that she left, a blubbering mess of tears and hair and tears and makeup and tears.

* * *

Almost as soon as Miranda had exited, the door opened once again. At first, all I could see was a pudgy hand. And all I could think was; oh no. For I was no in any way prepared for the whole of the Trawp family. Instead, the chubby hand extends to an arm that is cloaked in black, despite the climate. And surprisingly, this gets me unstuck. Cos for all the hell I've caused her, and all the crap I fire away about her, she was the closest thing to a mother that I had had in the past years, taking care of me when no one else would. Good ol' Matron. The door squeals against the pane as it bumps against the wall, Matron bustling into the room as though it were her kitchen. And if anyone in District Four knew anything about Matron, it was that the kitchen of the orphanage was hers and hers alone, everyone else be damned. I smiled as she collapsed onto the seat next to me, huffing loudly and fanning herself with her hand whilst looking to the heavens as if to plead with whoever abided up there to spare her the likely fate of spontaneous combustion. She looked at me with her red face.

"What'd you doin' getting reaped like that Miss Mags? Huh? You got any idea what I went through to get up those steps? My booty hasn't done that much since Mister Billy asked me to dance! You have any idea how long Mister Billy been swimming with those fishes?"

She released a low guttural sigh, if a sigh could be classed as such, as if her tirade was just as exhausting as the exercise she had done. But then she smiled. A watery smile that, on any other day, would send me screaming around the district because yes, yes, yes! I have seen Matron cry.

But today was not that day.

"You know Miss Mags?" Matron began, "I love you. In some kind of twisted way. And I don't know how you do it, for all the fish guts and crab claws I've cleaned up, because you've still wormed your way into my heart. Even if it is in the very deepest corner that never sees daylight."

I sniffled and smiled, again. Because this wasn't a sad moment. It was one of happiness.

"Love you to Matron."

"You gonna smash em' Miss Mags."

I looked at her in surprise, but she only nodded in affirmation and beckoned me towards her now outstretched arms. And I hugged Matron. She smelt of body odour, that cheap beer from the pub down the road and a hint of peppermint, but she was Matron, and in that moment I felt the safest I had in years, enveloped in her bosom which was capable in engulfing the circumference of my head entirely. She squeezed me hard for a second, and in that time I disappeared into one of her fat folds, before letting me go.

"I'm not kidding Miss Mags. I've been at that orphanage through thick and thin, and never have I had a kid like you who could sass me and still get away with it. If anyone could win these cruel tournament it would be you. Think girl, think. Cos that piece of meat in the other room aint' got nothin' on you when it comes to brains. And you think he could beat you in swimmin', or skill, or runnin'? When that deranged kids coming at ya with a knife, just think of me. Heavens, I've never seen no kid like you run when I come down with the bellows."

The peacekeeper knocked on the door, a loud rap that spoke of authority and finality.

"Don't worry, Matron," I said, "I'm coming back."

She grinned as the peacekeeper came into the room and began to drag her out, notably with some effort.

"I have to! Someone's gotta pass on your the hidden location of your favourite pantyhose! Can't have you finding them and running rampant, can we?"

And that's the last I ever saw of Matron. Her abnormally large bosom and her eyes that conveyed more than words ever could. They said 'You devil, you little rascal.' They said 'Oh, that's where they went.' They said 'Thank goodness she's gone.' They said 'I'm going to miss her.' And they said something very special too, and oddly enough it was only seeing it in her eyes that such statements actually felt true, in spite of her voicing them only moments ago. They said 'Best of luck.' They said 'I'll see you later'. They said 'I love you.'

* * *

Matron's eye's lingered in my memory as the Peacekeepers ushered us out of the justice building and to the train station. They weren't even that nice. Just brown orbs that resembled crap floating in the sewerage water that was the pupil. But what I remembered was the definiteness in them, how when she said, "You gonna smash em' Miss Mags" she was confidant and she was sure.

It was nice to have one's such faith.

* * *

**Thank you again for reading. A special thanks to Aranwen for being my first follower. I know it may seem stupid, but it's good to know at least one person out there thinks my reading isn't a pile of crap :) Also, for any of you guys looking for AnniexFinnick, you're going to have to wait. This story is primarily based on Mags, however both Annie and Finnick, along with some other HG characters, will come into play later. Feel free to give any criticism, grammatical errors, thoughts, queries, etc. **

**- ageingpapers**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer; The Hunger Games belongs entirely to Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement intended. **

* * *

Upon boarding the train, I was greeted by a similar layout to the Justice buildings with more extravagance; rich reds and golds and emeralds and purples, an abundance of crystal and shiny pearls, polished woods and stainless steels. I walked through the carriage, slowly, as if such a pace would allow me to both savour or comprehend the luxury to a further extent. Although extremely cliché, stepping into such a room felt like stepping into a dream, everything a cruel mirage that covered the monotony of the district. I placed my hand on one of the furnishings, admiring the smooth texture, only to be disrupted.

"Miss Kolp! What do you think you are doing Miss?"

I turned around to the entry of the carriage where Coa was standing, her appearance even more garish at the close distance.

"Uh, touching the table?"

"Well that will not do Margaret! Not do! Now get your hands off it!"

I obliged, yet deep down I felt sick. I knew why I couldn't touch the table. If I had been born to the Capitol, had pink hair, or maybe even green skin, I would've been able to touch that table. Power is a bitch.

"Sorry, Linthy," I said.

"Marrrggaaarret! Such behaviour is disrespectful and demeaning!"

This lady was big on her alliteration.

"I demand that you pay me more respect! Either Miss Linth, or at minimum, Coa."

She sounded like Matron, only Matron could pull of the whole I'm-the-power-you're-my-subject thing whereas the character was just plain pitiful when attempted by Coa. She needed more meat on her bones, and a voice that rivalled a male rather than a squirrel's.

"Margaret? Is that understood."

At that moment, it was if I had stepped out of my body. Became one of those Capitol people who come around and do evaluation things for school buildings and such. But I evaluated my short experience of the day. It had been filled with second guess' and smiles and sadness and disbelief, yet all the while, I had somewhat accepted it. Accepted that the Capitol had stormed into my live and decided I were to die. And I was tired. Tired of being the puny little twelve year old I was, and tired of being told what to do and where to be and what to say.

So I stopped.

"Where's the weapons carriage?" I asked.

"What?" Coa was confused, to say the least.

"I need that fishing spear."

And I smiled. A smile not for the benefit of others, not because I was sad, not because I was trying to look happy, but because I was a twelve year old girl who had accepted she was going to die, yet hadn't accepted to conform to another practice or person because of it.

* * *

The journey that night is quiet. Dinner is filled with the clanking of cutlery and plates, Coa eyeing me in both anger and fear, and Otto eyeing Coa in both suspicion and yearning. Coa was keen to have her revenge, and Otto was keen on getting Coa to spill her strategies for the game. Me? I was eyeing my dinner in both awe and wonder. I was keen to demolish as many plates as possible.

Afterwards, we all migrated to another carriage where we watched a recap of the reaping. Coa talked animately, commenting on size, shape and probable skill whilst Otto inhaled the advice as he would inhale a plate of food. I didn't like how Otto nodded along with everything Coa said. Because neither acknowledged the fact that they were human beings with feelings and families and fears. Instead they were meat. They were competition. They were to be annihilated. One of the few things I took away from the recap was that I was the smallest in comparison to the girls by at lest eight thigh sizes and nine arm sizes.

Unfortunately, such a figure tripled in comparison to the males.

Coa soon dismissed us. And so I wound my way through the carriages. Past kitchens and dining rooms and corridors that make me want to puke. Because even though as District Four, slightly favoured by the Capitol for being the only on the coast, we live in squalor. Where people starve and one is considered on the pudgy side if their ribs aren't visible.

Where wrinkles are a sign of prosperity, yet the elderly sit in their chairs and wait till the cool grasp of death finally obliterates them from a world where a government hands away their jobs and their neighbours can't feed them because they have a crying child who has neither ate.

Where child labour is no rarity and is rather a necessity of life, where a father must watch his child be taken from him and buried within the depths of the earth.

Where mothers weep as their lack of food extends from them to their bosom, as babies clutch at chests that shall no longer provide nourishment. I live in a world that has descended into a maelstrom. Daddy used to tell me of times when people believed in places called heaven and hell. Heaven was supposed to be up in the clouds, all lovely and such, and hell within the burning core of the earth. But heavens moved up now. It's ascended from the clouds, too beautiful, too weak to witness the demise of it's fellow friend of the earth, and we can no longer reach it. And so hell has moved up. And I am living amongst the fires and the rocks and the red. The blood and the tears and death who now strolls along with your shadow.

I walk into my bedroom, and I think.

Because although I am scared, maybe good can come of this experience. Maybe I can finally get to know Death on a name to name basis.

* * *

" – and after the release of the scores are the interviews, which I can't stress enough – "

"Why?"

"The interviews provide the sponsor with an insight. They know you're pretty from the parade, they know you've got the skills from your scores, now they want to know if you've got the smarts. What angle are you taking? What – "

"Angle?"

"Approach. Sexy, charming, humorous, sly, withdrawn, guarded. Anything. The interviews are where the major sponsors will do their hunting."

They are a pack of dogs. Waiting, watching; anticipating the slaughter.

We are the prey. Merciless between their strong jaws.

Coa and Otto continue their discussion, Coa divulging every detail of how the games work, Otto perfecting the art of interruption exceedingly well.

" – there'll be a cornucopia, a massive one, brimming with necessities. Everyone will be positioned around the cornucopia, and at random intervals will be supplies, the more valuable the closer to the structure – "

What I've done in the past day and a half is perfect the art of nodding when needed, the art of being blissfully ignorant to incessant chattering, and the art of stuffing as much food as possible into my stomach whilst lounging in a chair and trying not to vomit.

Tedious work.

And so it continues until the train is bathed in darkness.

What was once long grass fields turns to black, and the carriage is swallowed by the fickle threat. Coupled with an unprecedented silence, the ambience is one of fear. And danger.

But personally, I don't think the ambience is a product of this. I think the ambience is the product of the unknown, because the hills we are traversing through lead to only one place; the Capitol.

A sudden burst of light floods the carriage and the landscape transforms suddenly.

And oh my gosh.

It is crazy. Indescribably bonkers.

Everything is white and silver and sterile, gleaming windows towering one, five, thirty plus storeys. Odd sculptures commemorating crap litter the pavement which winds it's way to what seems like a town square, temporarily broken by reflective pools of shallow water. Housing is interspersed throughout, impeccably clean and new.

Everything is new.

Within the minute, the train has circled circumference the Capitol and pulled into the station, where mobs of Coa-like people stand, cheering ballistically. But I don't know if you could classify such humans as people; their bodies mutated to extreme lengths. One person's skin is a canary yellow, and lining his arms appear to be feathers, a soft shade of orange. His nose is extended to emulate a beak. Another has normal skin, if not overly tanned, yet her eyelashes are extended disproportionality, and her lips are encrusted with rubies. Coa ushers us to the door, pushing us into a mob of colours and lights and cameras which pulse and throb and ask questions and scream my name as if they know me.

But they don't.

Steadily, Otto and I move forward, and to my delight, I can see that Otto is as uncomfortable as I. With several shoves we make our way into what I am told is the training centre, where the tributes shall both stay and train, each with a floor of their own. Naturally, we are the forth floor from ground level. As we enter the room, we are once again greeted by the sight of lavish furnishings, and it disgusts me how I have already lost what sense of surprise that I once possessed upon the seeing of anything Capitol-made. Coa talks. Again.

"Otto, your room to the left, Margaret -"

"Mags," I shout.

"To the right. Kitchen down the hall, dining room across, go shower, bathe and I shall see you in the living room in half hour. In following years each pair of tributes shall have a mentor that is a previous victor from their District, however as this is the first year, your escorts shall be your mentors. Debrief and strategy talk tonight. Do not be late."

I breathe.

Two days ago I was swimming.

One day ago I was told I was going to die.

Half an hour ago I stepped off a train into the Capitol.

Now, I am told that we are to start the games before setting foot into an arena.

I breathe.

I breathe.

I breathe.

Because in half an hour I shall be thinking of how to get back to District Four in one piece.

In one day I shall figure out how to live.

And in two days, I may not be able to run. Nor swim. Or jump or skip or laugh or blink.

In two days, I may not be able to breathe.

* * *

If one thing good is to be said of the Capitol, it is that they can cook up a mean feast. I shovel more of some orange coloured stew that looks real mangy but is a taste bud's delight, into my mouth, nodding when Coa looks at me and making a mental checklist. Coa has introduced several strategies to Otto and I, the three being

a) Form an alliance and bounce off each other's strengths

b) Gather a group of people from a range of District's to utilise strengths

c) Go our separate ways.

So that's Coa's list. The translation?

a) Form an alliance with Mags cos she won't need to eat much, she can carry stuff for Otto and be used ultimately as a distraction when dangers present. She's also pretty easy to kill.

b) Present yourself to others as a caring brotherly figure, effectively using the others for their knowledge and skills and blindsiding them once a knife is in Otto's hands.

c) Ditch Mags. God knows you'd be better off.

So strategy and debrief is going real well. Exceptional. So Coa? When Otto gets out of the arena, make sure to shower him in praises and give him lots of little Otto's and Coa's so that the legacy of ditch the weak and glorify the strong may continue. And what a truly inspirational legacy it is.

* * *

The first night in the Capitol is odd. In some aspects, it is though I have already met my abrupt demise and transcended into some heavenly place where mattress' no longer have potato sized lumps and colonies of mites. The blankets are thick and warm, the clothes too. And the shower. Oh the shower! At home, a shower was a bucket of cold water thrown over your head. But here? Cue continuous stream of warm water and soap and smelly stuff.

Yet this is also my first night away from home. Sleeping by myself away from the dorm of the orphanage I had stayed in for the past eight years, lulled no longer by waves but by the cacophony of the Capitol. And I don't like it.

* * *

I am awaken at three in the morning. The glowing digits on the clock beside me pronounce so, however my brain fails to comprehend as such as Coa shakes me.

"Come on … come on … wake up!"

Wake me up at six and I'll give you a bit of the stink eye.

"Hurry up!"

Wake me up at five and I'll give you a glare and a few grumbles.

"We're behind schedule already, wake up!"

Wake me up at four and I'll give you a nice shove and a few mumbled expletives.

"For goodness sakes girl!"

Wake me up at three? Well no one has yet been as courageous as that.

"Margaret!"

I'm awake.

I quickly stand and race towards the door under Coa's shocked expression concerning my sudden alertness, grabbing the clothes I had placed on the dresser the previous day in the process. Before exiting the room I lock the door, watching as Coa slowly turns towards me. Gosh her reflexes are pathetic.

"What did'a say 'bout the name, Linthy?"

And with that I slam the door close.

* * *

Breakfast is delightful. Avoxes parade through the kitchen to the dining room holding platters of eggs, bacon, toast, tomato and onions, cereals and fish, along with oddly coloured juices. Otto is, surprisingly, a quiet eater, and both him and his bruised balls keep to themselves the duration of the meal. That is until, of course, he asks where Coa is.

"I don't know," I say through a mouthful of cereal.

I am in no way prepared to surrender the little peace I have established.

Otto grins.

"You sure?"

"Positive," I deadpan.

Otto waits a short moment before continuing.

"Oh, well I just thought I heard some sounds earlier this morning when I passed your room."

I look at him.

"Yeah well I heard some sounds when I passed your room too. Even I don't fart that bad."

It is true. I have established somewhat of an unfortunate reputation at the orphanage due to my weak pelvic muscles, but Otto, boy! He could square up against Matron!

Otto cracks a smile.

"I was talking about you locking Coa up."

I remain silent.

"Not bad," he remarks.

And I am momentarily filled with a sense of pride and power.

* * *

After breakfast, Otto and I retreat to the living area, slumping on the lounge and flicking through television channels whilst laughing at the absurdity of the themes. We share stories about home and discuss the differences we do and don't like about the Capitol from District Four. It's not all hugs and kiss' and monumental opinion changes where I figure out that underneath the brawn, Otto's a sweet guy, but I do have a good time. Because Otto is the only one here that understands what it's like to miss the sea and the sand as much as your own family and friends – or in my case, Matron. And although I know in a few days he'll be running towards me with a bloody axe, I'm content, and for the most part I think he is too.

"So then we got some glue from ol' man Rod."

"How the hell'd you manage that with no money?"

"Secrets. When you guys go home to play your games and whatnot, we have time. So we got plenty of time to spy."

"So you blackmailed him for glue? Why not lollies or something?"

"Lollies aren't long lasting. Matron pulling faces all day because we'd glued sand her toothbrush? That stuff lasts heaps."

It was good, the first time I'd felt complacent since arriving in the Capitol. That is till, of course, the elevator opened.

* * *

"Coa darling! Oh Coa? Your darling tributes ready for their makeover?"

Otto swears, expanding my vocabulary substantially.

"Who the hell is that?" I whisper.

"Coa told us yesterday. They're going to have this parade for all the tributes where they get to dress up. I didn't realise she meant full on!"

I stare at him. We are in the Capitol surrounded by genetically modified beings and he assumed a costume parade wouldn't be full on?

Idiot.

"Coa?"

A shadow falls over the lounge.

Damn.

I slowly turn around to be greeted by two Capitol monstrosities. One has an alarmingly sized chest and an obsession with neon colours, with hair and makeup featuring such shades prominently. Her legs appear to be scaled and her toes are webbed in between. As for the other, he is red. Limbs, clothing, hair; red. Only his eyes are different, with the eye being white, the iris red again and the pupil white. The effect is quite frankly, terrifying.

"Uhh, Hi," I say.

"Where Coa?" The colourful one questions.

"Uhh …"

A rather large bang reverberates throughout the apartment, sending the pair flailing towards the source.

"Oh Coa darling! We shall save you! Have no fear darling, we beat them once in the dark days, we thrash them again!"

Pudgy hands on wood and the hasty scramble at locks sound through the hallway, travelling to the disbelieving and slightly repulsed ears of both Otto and I.

"_They_ are going to be our stylists," I say.

"God help us."

* * *

The brightly coloured lady, to whose name I was later learn was Flern, inspected my body methodically, occasionally glancing back up to my face and looking into my eyes. I gave it right back.

"Well least you don't have any excess hair," she said, gesturing towards my legs. "The rest of your body though …"

Flern exhaled slowly as if my current state of pre-pubescence effected her on catastrophic measures. "If I had more time we could maybe do some alternations, but for now that'll have to do."

She allowed me to rise from the clinical table I had been on for the past few hours as I was prodded and poked, handing me a robe to allow me the chance to salvage whatever pathetic scraps of dignity I still retained. Motioning over to a sofa in the corner, Flern sat down and began talking about the parade and subsequently, my outfit.

"So do ? get to see the dress or what?" I ask.

Flern's demeanour instantly changes as she hurries over to a closet, eyes bright and shining. And for a moment I forget about the Hunger Games and the Capitol and my dislike of Flern. Because in that moment she is happy, and I can't help but sympathise. For it was not her fault she had been raised in a padded cage and fed lie after lie, and such a state of oblivion would be expected as consequence.

And I am resolved.

To be appreciative towards her in my final days, - because Flern's expertise may just get me an extra loaf of bread, or whatever.

So I'm resolute ...

Until I see the dress.

* * *

Both Flern and I stare into the mirror at the gown that currently hangs on my frame. I think we're making some ultimate Panem history here, because for the first time in yonks, two people from the Capitol and a District respectively are agreeing on something.

The dress is a nice colour. And it fits like a glove ... It's uh, highly creative and original. AND ...

That's all I got.

The dress has a cerulean coloured bodice of shiny material Flern tells me is taffeta. Obviously, she had envisioned having a little more to work with in the chest department, what with the plunging neckline that dips to my waist.

But it's the waist down that's the real problem.

Tulle.

Bright blue tulle.

And a helluva lot of it.

Flern tell's me it's meant to emulate the fishing nets of our district. It doesn't.

When Otto and I were flicking through the TV earlier, we found a program called 'My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.' It was about these Capitol people who had weddings that were like those of these gypsies from heaps of years ago. Anyway these ladies had massive skirts, each with a circumference of at least two metres.

I reckon mine's bordering three.

By now even Flern is beginning to frown.

"This won't do."

I nod. It really won't.

"Do we have any shells or fishing net?" I muse.

"Course. Had to have some inspiration."

"How about sprinklers?"

"Huh?"

But I'm not listening anymore.

Because I have an idea.

* * *

**Thanks again. Please R&R xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer; I do no own the Hunger Games. No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

I feel like a fish.

Back home, we have big fish markets every Sunday. The fish mongers each have massive buckets of water in which they keep their fish, alive, before they skillet them and whack them into an ice tray so you can buy them. If you erase the skillet part and put that at the end of the process, you've pretty much got my situation.

At the moment, me and my fellow fishes are in the water buckets – a large rectangular room that extends to an overhand, through which is a large concrete aisle, for lack of a better word. And we are awaiting the scrutiny of the Capitol, awaiting to be displayed and flaunted like the fish to buy.

When I end up in the water bucket, the first thing I see is Otto.

And I thank my lucky stars that I ended up with Flern instead of his stylist, Verniin.

Otto's reaction when he sees me is different.

"Oh heck."

And upon seeing Otto's costume, little else comes to my mind either.

Verniin seems to have found some sand and glue – and that's all Otto's wearing with the exception of an incredibly large shell and some of that tulle covering his nether region. It seems Verniin is extremely proud of his accomplishment, however even Coa, whom I would classify as being the very definition of Capitol eccentricity, seems to be holding a dislike towards the costume, what with her patronising expression and fleeting eyes that try to look at everyone but Otto. And when her eyes land on me, she wears an expression of pure happiness and relief – one that I highly doubt I will see again.

"Oh, Margaret – "

"Mags."

" – you look stunning."

Coa smiles and her eyes go soft for a minute, and I know she's being genuine.

"Thank you Miss Linth," I say with sincerity, and her smile brightens considerably. I may have just secured a get out off jail free card for this morning's debacle.

Otto sidles up next to me.

"Wanna trade stylists for tomorrow."

I grin, taking in his pleading eyes and serious expression.

"Why? You're rocking that whole just-been-breadcrumbed look. And as for the shell; you'll send hundreds swoooon-ing."  
He grimaces. "Not the look I was going for."

"You should have seen mine before."

"What do you mean?"  
And so I describe the previous monstrosity that would have sent me to my deathbed. Otto's eyes just bug out – and to abnormally creepy dimensions.

"So she let you change it?"

"Yeah kinda. I gave her some ideas, like the covering in shells, but she extended them."

He sighs. "You do look good."

And I do.

Flern and I cut down the layers of tulle, so that now the skirt doesn't bulge but rather hangs loosely, with the front being shorter than the train of the back. Above the skirt is a layer of fishing net, hazardously sewn to the bodice and covered instead by chiffon that gives the appearance of rippling water.

The bodice is still a cerulean taffeta, however the once revealing dip that exposed the majority of my torso is now covered in shells; big ones and small ones, ones of elegant simplicity and others of intricacy. Some are even woven into my hair, which for the most part is down. The shells are attached to the leftover tulle that Flern has sewn not only over my torso, but also my arms and neck, creating an effect of uneven edges that is surprisingly likeable.

But that's what District four is; it is the water and the waves that present the possibility of the unknown. The beautiful surface of shells and calm water that shelter the choppy seas and poison barbs of venomous fauna, of which the rainbow of fish and utter beauty abide within. It is a cacophony of pretences, both positive and negative. And in that aspect, District Four is an emulation of the Capitol. Cue the tulle. The ridiculous taffeta.

There is one thing to District Four though that will never be compared to the Capitol, nor any other district. Beauty.

Not materialistic, but the natural beauty of the water, the beauty of a District united in one love, the beauty of a District who rose from the ashes not necessarily triumphant, but with their dignity and dreams still intact. We are the District that the Capitol could grab no full hold on – for we are the water. And as anyone knows, the water shall always quench the flames.

So on the back of the skirt are small sprinklers and hoses – minute and only visible to the expectant eye, and they shall spray jets of water. And in one form or another, I shall rebel against the Capitol as I parade down that stretch of concrete. Because District Four is the District of water, and I am part of that. And nothing the Capitol does can take that away.

* * *

A loud voice reverberates through the enclosure as everyone grips their chariots, introducing the concept of the parade. All the stylists and escorts have already left the enclosure to watch the event, leaving us only in the presence of a selection of heavily armed peacekeepers. I glance around me nonchalantly, taking into account each District's costumes. I'm not stupid – I know what this parade is. A demonstration of the Capitol's power and how they have control over us in all aspects, even in matters trivial enough as fashion. But to us tributes? We already know that. What this parade is for is to get sponsors; the most. From what I can see, it looks as the One and Two have got that down pat. Both tributes are sheathed in crystal and lace, creating an angelic appearance that will no doubt capture the heart of any soft-hearted Capitol-ee. The tributes from two appeal to a much different audience, no doubt the one eager for fame subsequent of a win. Each has slipped into black leotards with large rocks attached. Although not necessarily 'amazing', their expressions of determination and, for lack of a better phrase, 'we-will-kill-you' convey their intentions. Other district's, however are just plain pitiful**. **Take 10 – livestock.Dressed as cows. Nice.

The voice pauses for dramatic effect, before calling to the audience;

"District One!"

The shimmering pair glide forward into a screaming crowd, waving and kissing and sucking up. I look up to Otto.

"You want to appear united or separate?"

"What?"

Gosh he's thick.

District Two roll out.

"Do you want to appear as one unit or separate individuals?"

"I don't care," he says, "as long as we don't do that."

He's referring to District three who have just rolled out, copying District one and two for the most part and waving like lunatics with big grins.

"Don't worry," I reply, because there is nothing to grin about.

"District Four!"

Otto and I burst into the light of the parade ground, greeted by a short silence before the crowd explodes into a cacophony of cheers. Otto was playing his part well, sending suggestive winks into the audience and long kisses, but me? I was different. I was reformed and resolute. Because the Capitol owned so much of me, yet just because they owned my fate, didn't mean they owned my decisions. I was not going to play their game, consequences be damned. So I looked ahead. Fixed a steely gaze on the large podium four hundred metres away, ignorant to the shouts and screams of my name. And my dress rippled and the sprinklers attached let out jets of water and the wind whipped through my hair, but no hold did it find because in that moment I was emancipated. I was rebellious. For water is uncontrollable, unpredictable. And I was the water; the water was me.

* * *

Coa knocks on my door before bounding in. No doubt that bulge in her pocket is a spare key.

"Up and at them Miss! We've got lots, lots, lots to do."

One 'lot' would be sufficient, Coa, especially at such an ungodly hour after last nights festivities. After we had reached the end of the stretch, the creepy man from the television commercial who told us originally about the Hunger Games stood up from a throne of sorts and gave a heart warming speech concerning our imminent deaths. Up close, it was obvious that he was quite young, no older than eighteen at most. However as such didn't absolve my fears, as for one to hold power in the Capitol usually meant they were cunning, manipulative and dangerous. Yet for the man to be still a teenager; my imagination can only begin to comprehend the sick and twisted way his brain worked.

"You ready, Mags?"

I smile, actually smile, because Coa got it right.

"I'll see you in the dining room in ten. Today's your first day of training, so I had Flern hang up some garments in your wardrobe," she says before she leaves.

With extreme tentativeness, I roll out of bed and approach the door, as one would if they had known a serial killer was lurking behind the two oak doors of their wardrobe. For despite Flern's finesse in creation, her imagination is severely lacking in terms of fashion. The door squeaks as I pull it open, and I see pink. Hot pink. A lot of hot pink.

I pick a pair of pants up and hold them against me in front of the mirror, before throwing them back into the pile with disgust. There were feathers down the sides of the pants. Pink feathers, like Flern'd delved into her dress up box and attached a feather boa to the side.

"Coa!" Otto hollers from his room, adjacent to mine, "Coa, these clothes are too small. What do I do?"

"Just put something else on for know. I'll call Verniin to come and make some adjustments."

The peaceful silence once again regains it's dominance of the apartment, but not in my head. For my head is ticking, whizzing, fizzling. And as Otto stomps past my room, I know what to do.

* * *

"Why Mags! You're actually here on time!" Coa beams as I sit down at the table. I know she intended the statement as a compliment, yet I still have to bite my lip from scowling at her. Instead I busy myself with breakfast, heaping food onto my plate without a second glance.

"Where'd you get those clothes?" Otto grunts from the seat opposite, indicating to the garb I'm currently wearing; a loose black t-shirt that skirted my knees but now rests at my hips credit to some haphazard cutting skills, and a red pair of shorts that have been hacked in a similar fashion. I shrug.

"Wardrobe," I say through a mouthful of toast.

Otto looks at me for a few more seconds before shrugging as well and turning his attention back to his plate.

His brain is the size of a peanut.

For wasn't entirely incorrect in saying my clothes were sourced from a wardrobe, because they were. Just not the wardrobe he's thinking of.

"Speaking of clothes, Otto," Coa begins, "You'd better go get changed. Training starts in forty five minutes, and you don't want to be the last ones there!"

Otto merely nods before scarfing down the rest of his breakfast and heading to his bedroom.

"Now Miss Mags, are you excited for training?"

I heap another forkful of eggs into my mouth.

"Nope."

Because I honestly see no excitement in preparing for your deathbed. To my surprise, Coa merely nods before turning her attention back to her coffee, swishing it around the sides. It's moments like these that she looks almost normal, and I can think of her as a friend trying to help rather than one preparing me for the slaughter.

"What're you good at, Mags?

"What?"

"What are you good at? At home. You ever used a knife for fish, any weaponry, camouflage?"

"Uh … I can make a mean fish hook."

Still gazing into her coffee, she smiles. And I think that without all the capitol eccentricities, Coa could be beautiful.

"Do me a favour in training; make lots of fish hooks. You want everyone to know your strengths; it will increase your chances of good allies, and also strike a little fear in others – if you're so competent in a certain aspect and their not. You got it?"

Although, personally, I think it's crappy advice, I still treasure it. Maybe, just maybe, Coa isn't that bad.

"Yeah, I got it. Thanks, Coa."

And then he screams.

* * *

"What the hell is this!?"

His eyes are wild, bulging out, and hair unkempt, credit to the constant motions of his hands as he attempts to pull it out.

"What was he thinking!?"

By 'he', Otto is referring to Verniin. And the subject of Otto's rage?

A wardrobe full of hot pink, feathers, sequins and glitter.

Coa is spluttering, on the verge of hyperventilating as her arms flail and she delves into every draw as to find a suitable attire for Otto.

"Well are they your size? Maybe the were meant for Margaret!"

I would pick her up, but then I'd disrupt the show.

"But they fit Coa! They would be massive on Mags!"

Coa groans and races out into the hallway, returning a minute later with a phone clamped to her ear. Verniin's high pitched voice can be heard shrieking through the device.

"What do you mean pink! I had black and blue and red! Masculine colours, Coa! Masculine!"

"Well there it's not in the cupboard Verniin, it's all Malibu Barbie!"  
"What do we do then?"

Coa lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Send up some new clothes!"

There is a short silence before Verniin talks again, this time soft so that it is inaudible for Otto and I. Coa pales.

"Ok." And with that she hangs up the phone.

"What did he say?" Otto asks.

"He can't sew clothes in twenty minutes."

Otto's face goes slack.

"You're gonna have to wear the pink."

* * *

**Thanks for reading. I know this chapter's quite a bit shorter, and the next few will be, but afterwards they'll pick back up again. R&R :) xx**


	5. Chapter 5

**I do not own the Hunger Games.**

* * *

We walk into a steel room – steel walls, steel floor and a steel railing that protects twenty or so steel hearts from tipping over the edge in a flurry of drunkenness. The area was set out in a circular shape of sorts, with subsections dotting the walls that appeared to be specified to a particular skill that we may need in the arena; many already full with the other tributes. With light steps I made my way over to the leftmost station, edible plants, ignorant to the stares shot in my direction.

Though probably, it wasn't me they were looking at. Just Otto, in what he deemed the least embarrassing choice of apparel from my ex-wardrobe – a metallic t-shirt edged with feathers around the neck, and three quarter leggings striped with pink pompoms.

Nice.

The station is empty of tributes, consisting of only an alcove with a small pool and shrubbery, as well as a holographic book of sorts detailing the plants displayed in the alcove – the good and the bad.

Coa told us this morning before we left to stick to what we are good at, rules of which Otto is following meticulously over in the spear booth. She said it was a good tactic; enhancing your skill whilst also striking fear in your opponent and, in Otto's case, regain some respect after the wardrobe malfunction. But I reckon that tactic is crap.

Because what if you get into the arena and the Cornucopia they've been talking about, what if it didn't have any spears?

What if the arena was one of woodlands?

What if there is no water except ruddy little pools which we would need to purify?

Well, two fishes like Otto and I would flap on the ground and die.

And although I am resigned to my particular fate, I'm not going to sign the waiver to my death. If I'm going to die in this cruelty, this misgiving, this hate, I want to die like me. I want to die the sarcastic yet smart and morally just bastard I am.

* * *

The following two days of training pass by all to fast. Whilst Otto, later dressed in black, wielded his spear and flexed his muscles, conversing with the tributes from one and two, I made my way around the perimeter of the training room, alone. Lunches were spent by myself on a plastic table, stabbing my salad with a certain ferocity as I watched Otto continue to 'buddy buddy' with one and two. Otto and my relationship was a strange one. At times, we acted as though we were the best of friends, and at others, it took all my strength to refrain from sending my fork hurtling across the lunch room. For although we held a fragile bond credit to the same experiences, he was still the arrogant ass from the justice building, and I was still a twig. Dispensable.

At night, Coa would routinely ask of our day, to which Otto usually beamed and went about explaining word for word his budding alliance with one and two. Then Coa'd turn to me and enquire with a polite smile of my day. You could tell she couldn't really care less. In everyone's eyes, including mine to an extent, I was lilliputian. A number only to fill the twenty four spots required, in no way a competitor. So I would shrug my shoulders and say;

"Yeah, it was good."

And then Otto'd but in and proclaim that I hadn't been sticking to my strength areas in training, effectively sending Coa off in a tailspin.

Dickhead.

But I had kept at my specialised strategy and, in my own opinion, was reaping the benefits. I had a basic knowledge of every component, and had even discovered areas that I excelled at, such as the edible plants and other memory related activities. And best of all, it appeared few others, if any at all, were taking the same approach. Most were hanging around in what they felt safe in, affirming their belief that they had a chance. It didn't exactly make fraternising easy, essentially ruling out all possibilities of an ally, but I didn't really mind. I didn't want to bring someone down with my weakness, or they bring me down with theirs. And I didn't need the inevitable heartbreak.

On the third day, we were directed to a small holding room, and told to sit. These were our individual examinations. The District One male was called, and he disappeared behind a set of steel bars. Then it was the girl. And two, three, Otto …

"Dis-trict Four. Fe-male trib-ute. Mar-gar-et Kolp."

I heaved a heavy sigh as a few tributes sniggered.

"It's bloody Mags," I muttered under my breath as I stepped into the training room, the door closing behind me with a soft whoosh. My footsteps echoed as I walked forwards to the centre of the room, under the scrutiny of the twenty or so Capitol officials perched at a table on the raised ledge. I could see that the weights had been used, as well as the spears and knives, due to the fact that in each of the sections dummies were pierced with the weapons. And furthermore, I knew that each of the past tributes who had already displayed their skill had done well, because the officials were anticipating my next move as the frog anticipates the fly. That, and each dummies head's and heart's were peppered with dents and cuts. An exceedingly portly man in the centre of the table nodded towards me.

"You may use anything within your disposable to showcase your skill. You have a maximum of fifteen minutes. Go."

But I just stood there, watching the officials as they watched me, growing increasingly complexed until, after no more than a minute, they turned to each other and the decadent feast on the table, stuffing shrimp and chicken and fish into their mouth as if a baby weren't dying in another district cos the shrimp their mamma's found had to go to the Capitol.

And I hate it.

I hate the greed and I hate the injustice and I

just

want

to

scream.

But I can't.

For to scream would ensure a low score, and a low score ensures minimum sponsors, and minimum sponsors ensures death. And I don't know what I want anymore. For I know I am going to die. I want to die still me, unaffected. Yet still there is that nagging piece of me, that natural reaction of humanity that wants to live, to see the blood and guts and the turning of a child's innocence so I can see the sun rise over an ocean again.

I don't know what I want anymore.

So instead, I do the one thing I know I can do, and to an extent, want to do. I am not going to sit back and be a puppet of the Capitol's. Show them how well I can throw a spear because they want me to, or give in and cry because they need a show. I am going to be District Four again, just as I was at home, and just as I was in the parade, and just as I have been in training. For water is uncontrollable, unpredictable. And I am the water; the water is me.

I look up at the officials again, who are even more enveloped in the celebration then before. It appears that behind them is another table, to which they frequent, picking up more delicacies and filling up glass' from a water tap or bubbler of sorts.

And I have an idea.

With quick feet, I stalk towards the edge of the room, pressing my ear to the floor. If there is a bubbler on the ledge, then it must be sourced by water pipes, which would likely be placed below ground. And I hear it. The soft trickle of water as one of the officials uses the tap, faint yet definite. I hastily scramble onto my feet again before jumping up and down on the floor and smiling in glee from the soft sounds of reverberation. Due to the hurried construction of the training centre, there mustn't've been enough time to construct a proper concrete slab, hence the floor being only reinforced wood panels. After fetching an array of weapons, I begin to carve a hole into the ground, intermittently glancing up at the clock as I have eight minutes, seven, six, five. And it breaks. The woods groans and cracks and after I push a 200 kg weight on it, falls through.

The light trickles into the underground tavern of sorts slowly, as if apprehensive. The training centre floor is only 50cm from the ground, forcing me to crawl, yet this, coupled with the floor's small area, should mean it fills quickly. Using the weight again I begin to bludgeon one of the pipes, breaths laboured and arms sweaty. Because if I were to be caught right now …

The pipe cracks. And the water trickles, pours, gushes until the whole of the underground area is near submerged. I deftly scramble out of the hole to an unsuspecting audience, still munching on their cow.

"Excuse me!" I yell.

The room falls silent, the only exception the beginning sounds of water lapping as it covers the floor, although as of yet, unbeknownst to the officials.

"Yes?" the portly one says.

"I think you've sprung a leak."

And with that I leave.

Unpredictable.

Uncontrollable.

* * *

"Oh I am excited! Otto, are you excited? Mags, surely? Oh this is just sub-lime!"

Oh yeah, Coa, I'm heaps excited too to see how good others reckon the people who want to kill me are!

"Mmhm" I mumble noncommittally.

The TV blasts a deafening tune as a young man flounces onto the stage, holding a stack of cards. I'm not excited, but I'm anxious. It's time to find out our scores.

"Welcome, welcome, to tonight's exclusive coverage of the training scores for the first ever Hun-ger Games!"

A manufactured roar echoes through the speakers, causing me to wince. I don't want to be here. The scores are presented as though they are our whole worth, which in some aspects, they are. However I don't want to do what I will probably do after watching the show; I don't want to judge a person on a number, think of someone worthy of only a two because that's what they got.

"District One's Male, Jerome Hanson."

The TV presenter delivers the standard dramatic pause as a picture of Hanson flashes on the behind screen.

"Eight."

Coa and Otto nod as if in appreciation, yet I'm holding back bile. This kid is going into a death yard, and they are ranking his chances of success. And I've seen what Hanson could do with a knife. If that were an eight, I shudder to think of a nine, let alone a ten plus. The scores progress steadily, the District one girl achieving a seven, along with both District Two tributes, yet such high scores were to be expected. District Three tributes achieve fives, menial when compared to the possible outcome yet surprisingly close to that of District's One and Two.

"Coming up after the break, we find out District Four's scores!" the television presenter says before the TV cuts to an advert about special peanuts or something.

"Well, what do you think?" Coa asks.

I produce my standard response. "Mmhm."

Coa 'tsks' and mutter about 'plain-utter-stupidity' before broaching the next topic. I reckon that if wars were fought with words rather then weapons, Coa would be right up there.

"Oh my dears, I forgot to ask! An emergency vehicle of sorts was called to the training centre today! A problem with the water pipes in the training room, supposedly, yet they wouldn't tell me why or when!"

I internally grin as Otto and I both shrug our shoulders, and thankfully, the subject is dropped as the program returns.

"District Four's Male, Otto Trawp … Seven."

Otto fist pumps the air as Coa goes into a fluster, both congratulating Otto and commending herself on her efforts, as though she we the one who trained Otto.

"District Four's Female, Margaret Kolp."

"It's bloody Mags!" I half yell, chucking a piece of chicken from my dinner at the TV. It lands with a thud, right on the presenter's face, and continues to slide down the screen in a path of spectacularly orange sauce. I grin. Coa, however, does not.

"Maaa-rgaret Kolp!" Her expression is thunderous, and I can see the attack plan. She'll see my dismal score, tsk, acknowledge and confirm her previous assumptions I was no good, then continue her berating by pointing out that one should not chuck food.

"Ten."

Sometimes, in moments or incredible fear or stupidity, the world seems to slow. Or maybe not the world, but just our minds, as we struggle to comprehend the event which turned our preconceived ideas of convention or acceptability on their heads. I think Coa and Otto are going through one right now. And, maybe, I think I am too.

Otto grabs the remote and taps the volume button frantically as applause pours from the speakers. The presenter smiles at the camera. "That's right folks. Margaret Kolp from District Four scored a ten. Onto District Five!"

The remote slams into the TV and the sound immediately ceases as spindly cracks spread their way from the centre outwards. Otto's door slams and all the while Coa just sits there, staring at the television.

"Good job, Mags," she says, and with the same vacant expression, gets up, and leaves for her room.

"What? How can Otto gets to throw a remote and I can't throw my chicken?"

* * *

"And so, I was definitely thinking like, we could so do Medusa. You know the whole, like, wicked witch fairytale thingo. And Medusa was, like, heaps evil and scary, so you would be heaps like, evil and scary!"

I look into the mirror, at my reflection and Flern's.

Tonight are the interviews, where each of the tributes will have an interview with that presenter dude from last night, Regin, so all of Panem's people can supposedly get to know us. I thought I'd rock up and hour before, jump into a dress, talk to the Regin guy and go eat food. Instead, I was woken at six to be buffed and polished.

"Uh, No."

"But, like, come on!"

"But, like, no."

Medusa was Flern's third idea. The first was a Verniin inspired creation of a fishing net with strategically placed sea shells underneath. The second was a clown fish dress.

"Seaweed?"

I shook my head.

"Octopus tentacles wrapped around?"

"Does it have to do with the water?"

"Uh, no, but what's the point if it doesn't reflect your character?"

I inwardly smiled, for if Flern identified my character as synonymous to water, then surely others did too.  
"Can we please use something else?"

Flern sighs in relent before retreating to the closet and pulling out a garment.

"What about this?"

And I think Flern just made the best fashion choice in her life.

* * *

The corridor smells of salt and sewerage. And although quite repugnant, I really want to know how the Capitol could achieve such a repulsive smell in such an environment. The wall is lined with tributes, in order from one to twelve, first female then male. Regin can be heard clearly from our position, introducing the concept of the night and standard protocol, as can Coa and her fellow escorts, two rooms over. Getting ready for the arduous task of sitting in an audience and watching a few kids stumble through an interview, I suppose.

"Now, you may know her as one of the top scoring females."

District One's girl bristles up ahead. I don't think she likes being one of the top scoring females, she probably wanted to be _the_ top scoring female. Heck, tribute!

"Or you may know her by that am-az-ing jewelled dress that she stormed at the parade! Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Sapphireity Jones!"

Sapphireity waltzes up the few steps to her right and onto the stage, met with an ear shattering applause. The District Three girl ahead winces, no doubt thinking of her fading chances. Me though? I'm just wondering what Sapphireity's parents were on at the time of her birth and naming.

Five minutes later, Sapphireity waltzes back down those steps, smirking, before traipsing down to the end of the hallway and into the audience where each of us will be seated after the completion of our respective interviews.

"Please Welcome, Jerome Hanson, District One!"

Another cheer rises through the studio and Hanson disappears, leaving us only with his deep baritone of a voice that proclaims, rather arrogantly, to Regin that he's got these games "Under wraps." Then district two disappears. And three. Each to be met with catcalls and whistles, each to depart the stage with a smirk in our direction as if those five minutes ensured their success credit to favouritism.

"Now the next tribute we'll be talking to has had us on the edge of our seats lately. At the reaping she was cast away as scrawny, at the parade she demonstrated an unparalleled beauty and sense of determination, and to top it off, scored the highest in training. Please give a hand for the twelve year old, District Four girl, Maaargaret Kolp!"

A few of the tributes behind me snigger as the crowd erupts into cheers again. Instead of bounding up the stairs like the previous six tributes, I stand motionless. Big breath in, big breath out. For although it may seem trivial, I hate the name Margaret. And it's the Capitol's persistence in naming me as something I am not that drives me up the wall. Margaret seems kinds intimidating. It holds the possibility for power, for greatness; and I don't want it. I just want to be Mags.

"Margaret?" Regin questions from the stage, and with haste I scramble up the steps and into the blinding light of cameras and stage lights.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Regin says, taking my hand and leading me to the front of the stage, "Margaret Kolp!"

His hand is clammy, and I don't like the way he clenches my own; as I would clench a friend's hand, as I would clench someone's hand if they were dying. I guess, in a way, I am. But I will not die as Margaret. After the crowd dies down, Regin leads me back to the middle of the stage and motions towards two plush seats, before pulling me into a short embrace. With deft motion I bring my knee up into his groin and pull him closer.

"Name's Mags, got it?"

He nods meekly and with a sweet smile, I let go, nod towards the crowd and sit down. A timer on the right hand side of the stage starts to click down. Regin, currently a little less mobile than I, crouches down and rests himself into his seat, a pained smile across his face. Miraculously, it appears no one noticed the incident, credit to my body being obscured from the audience's view point at the time.

"So, _Mags_, how are you liking the Capitol?"

This morning, Coa told me to be cute. Innocent, happy. What twelve year old girls are meant to be. But most twelve year old girls will live on to get boobs. To have a boyfriend and first kiss and love and marriage and kids and grandkids and death by wrinkles. I will have none. So I'm just gonna be who the damn hell I wanna be.

"The foods good. And the buildings are tall."

"Ahh," Regin replies, clearly unimpressed and at loss for how to keep the interview flowing.

"Different from District Four hey? I bet that's a nice change!"

"Uh, no."

Backstage, you could hear the constant throbbing of the crowds; it seemed as though they never really stopped talking or clapping in between the questions and answers. Now though, the audience is consumed in silence. A complete and utter boredom silence.

"Well then, let's talk about District Four. What are your family like? Excited for a possible victor, perhaps?"

"I'm an orphan."  
"Oh an orphan! I've heard the District Orphanages are lovely places!"

"Well, they're not. They're the personification of s—t."

A lone laugh bubbles out of the audience, surprisingly, from the male from three.

"Damn right!" he yells.

I internally cringe. It was one thing for me to attack the Capitol. I didn't want others at risk because of my sass mouth.

Regin's now twiddling his thumbs slightly.

"Well, how about your training score. A ten!"  
"So?"

"So, uh. Many are curious as to what may have transpired for the receiving of such a score. Sources also say an emergency vehicle of sorts came to the training centre around midday due to one of the tribute's demonstrations of skill. Do you have anything to say of this?"

I shrug.

"Yeah it was me. I flooded the training centre."  
"And why would you do that, Mags, when there was a room full of weaponry to chose from?"

I smile.

"Cos I'm not going to sit back if the Capitol wants me to sit back. I'm not going to be submissive if the Capitol wants me to be submissive. And so I didn't use those weapons because the Capitol wanted me to. I found the water because it was a surprise. Uncontrollable, unpredictable. Just like District Four."  
I look out over the audience, and stare right into the camera.

"Just like me."

A loud buzzer sounds and Regin quickly stands.  
"Alright, Mags' time's up. District Four's male, Otto Trawp!"

I look up in confusion. Every other tribute was given a lengthy farewell and escorted off stage by Regin himself. Instead, a burly man in black indicates me towards the seating where one, two and three are waiting. Before Otto is seated though, I see the timer. It doesn't say 5.00, nor does it say 0.00. It reads 2.00.

I still had 2 minutes left.

* * *

At night, after wiping off all my makeup and peeling my dress off, I cry.

I cry and I sob and I curse this stupid damn world for turning it's back on a girl who needs it most. And I am

so

so

lonely.

A grain of sand into the rainforest, an oak in the desert. And like each,

I

will

die.

Across the hall I can hear Coa's monstrous knocking and quiet farewell for Otto. She says she'll miss him, she's proud of him and if he has faith in himself, then surely he will win. Then the door closes. The heels clack clack click and she is coming and coming and they go past.

What kid deserves no farewell on the eve of their deathbed?

There is snot in my hair and smeared across my face which is stained by tears and the distinct smell of the acrid mixture of fear and bile emanates from the opposite bedside.

But I don't care.

Because this time tomorrow I won't have snot or tears or fear or bile. I won't cry or sob or curse or be lonely because tomorrow I will be up in the heavens. No more Margaret. Just Mags.

* * *

The room is small, three by two at most, with nothing except a plastic tube situated in the far corner and a tall cupboard. Flern pats my back, ushering me into the room. Surprisingly, Flern has been subdued this morning, from when she woke me at five, the entire hovercraft journey and now. With quiet steps she opens up the cupboard and brings a garment towards me; a black unitard with a slight sheen and a pair of hiking shoes. I begin undressing as Flern suddenly becomes animated. "Unitard. Black. Lycra material. Thermal layering, to keep cool when needed hot when not. I'd say water based, due to moisture wicking. But the hiking boots? Forest. Rainforest! Expect sub tropical to tropical climates; leafy, dense shrubbery. Good hiding spaces," she grabs my hands and stares at me, "Utilise this, Mags, utilise this and you have a chance!"

If it were Coa telling me this, I'd nod slightly and fake a smile. If it were Otto, I'd probably just say thanks and walk off. But it's not either of them, the two people I should feel most connected too. It's Flern, who, despite a deprecating sense of fashion, has listened. Sat down and heard me as I said yes to her ideas or no. Dressed me up in beautiful creations and tried her darnedest to help me have a chance. And that was all I really wanted. Not necessarily someone to help me win, but someone to believe I had a chance, regardless of whether I actually did or not.

So, because this is Flern, I smile a real smile, and hope that it conveys every ounce of gratitude. And, unwillingly, a few tears escape too. The small distance between us suddenly seems to much, and without thinking I pull her into a hug.

"Thanks Flern. I … I -"

"Shh. I know."

"One min-utes to start. Trib-utes, please sit-u-ate your-selves in tubes."

I pull away and walk into the tube, which slides shut before beginning it's ascent.

Flern's face is the last I see. She couldn't be more than 25. Born and raised in the Capitol. Yet she had such a compassion and faith to recognise the brass twelve year old girl going into the hunger games needed someone. She became a provider. An assistant. A friend. And just before she disappears from view, I look into her eyes. They say 'I'm going to miss her.' And they said something very special too, and oddly enough it was only seeing it in her eyes that such statements actually felt true, in spite of her voicing them only moments ago. They said 'Best of luck.' They said 'I'll see you later'. They said 'I love you.'

Just like Matron's.

* * *

There is dark, there is dark, there is dark and then there is light. The blinding light of an artificial sun, and for a moment, that is all that exists. But then my eyes adjust to a golden horn, brimming with goods. Blankets, rope, food water, weapons. Lots of weapons.

10 …

We are in a clearing of sorts.

9 …

Flern was right, the arena seems to be a rainforest.

8 …

We are spaced evenly around the cornucopia, on raised platforms.

7 …

A bang resounds through the small area.

6 …

A canon sounds as blood splatters my feet.

5 …

4 …

District 9's female's dead.

3 … 2 … 1

The bell tolls.

It's time for the killing.

* * *

**Merry Christmas for yesterday everyone! Hope you guys had a great day full of pressies and food. **

**Thanks for reading :) Please feel free to comment on the story - the good and the bad. **

**xoxox **


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer; I don't own the Hunger Games.**

* * *

My feet slap the ground as I run, breaths laboured. Somewhere near I can hear the sickening sounds of metal against flesh, the thuds of bodies as they crash to the ground and momentary victory calls, often pierced as another takes advantage.

I hear it all, but I don't see anything except the edge of the clearing, where the uneven rocks and shrubbery gives way to looming trees of dense foliage. Coa told Otto and I to get into the thick of the fight. Said experts were already labelling the initially killing at the cornucopia the 'bloodbath', and from the constant echoes of canons, there were correct. No doubt Otto is currently slashing away with a recently required spear, helping his one and two buddies, but instead I'm running. From experience, if I do the opposite of Coa's instructions, I usually turn out in the right. With deft hands, I scoop up any menial objects in my path; a large backpack, rope, and a water canister.

And then I am in the green.

With slight hesitation, I turn back to clearing, seeing the rocks dashed with red, the bodies and the rusted blood stained on silver metal.

And with that, I set out into the forest.

* * *

I don't stop walking to night falls, dark and black and filled with the sounds of unknown creatures emerging from their rest. Throughout the day I intermittently sipped from the water canister, and nibbled on three crackers, but nothing more. With my backpack still on, I quickly begin to scale one of the trees that appeared to have the most amount of potholes for me to place my feet, passing each branch till the trunk begins to sway slightly under my weight. Cautiously, I peek through the foliage. And I see it.

The arena seems endless, a plain of forest that stretches on and on, but most of it is probably a mirage. If Capitol wants a bloody show, then they wouldn't provide us with unlimited space and opportunity. In the centre is the clearing, only the golden tip of the cornucopia visible. About one six kilometres in front of me, and one kilometre from the clearing where, no doubt, Districts One, Two and Otto have set up camp, is a hazy grey, a plume that begins to grow steadily larger until blatantly visible. I close my eyes. Smoke.

One advantage of being Otto's district partner is that I have a distinct knowledge of his game plan, as well as the game plan of his allies. It was all he talked about with Coa. So I know tonight shall be filled with the sickening hollers of children who are one step closer to going home and one step over the line from which they hand over their innocence.

Before I become overwhelmed I slide back down the tree, to a branch with dense foliage underneath so that anyone passing underneath would be oblivious to my presence. Strapping my backpack to the trunk, I crawl the rest of the way down, finding smaller trees of which I snap their branches and haul back up the tree. Using the rope, I secure each of the branches together to form a mat of sorts, before attaching the mat to the branches and trunk. With the last of the rope I form a small loop, tightening it around my wrist and tying the blanket to it.

The last thing I would need would be for it to fall to the ground, effectively ensuring that I would near freeze to death or catch hyperthermia. And if the cold didn't get to me, then surely the tributes that happened to wander by and realise that a blanket means a sleeping person would.

The anthem of Panem sounds, and I look to the sky, watching as holographic projections show the fallen tributes chronologically.

The girl from three.

Both from five and six.

The boy from seven, each of the girls from eight, nine, ten and

both from twelve.

* * *

**Hey, Thank you for reading.**

**I know this Chapter is short, and so is the next, but that's just how it is. I didn't want Mag's first moments in the arena in a big clump, or her whole games in the space of one chapter - I feel the oddity of Mag's predicament, her determination and confusion, could be more successfully conveyed through a few shorter chapters. **

**So now that I've probably bored you out of your brains, I just wanted to say that I'm going away in the new year, and for the few that have bothered to read this far, don't many more updates to late January, unless some miracle occurs. **

**Thanks again! xx **


	7. Chapter 7

**I do not own the Hunger Games**

* * *

There were eleven children with gashes today.

Red and brown and black.

There were eleven children with glazed eyes today.

As they looked at the sky of blue and green and yellow and I pray that what they saw was

beautiful.

Because eleven children died today.

They were murdered.

And eleven mamas will cry today.

Cos their babies are gone.

One child is crying today.

Maybe two,

Possibly thirteen,

dependant on how cold their stone hearts are.

The children are crying because this doesn't need to happen.

The children are crying because their friends are disappearing.

And the children are crying because they know that soon, they're going to disappear too.

* * *

**Short for the reasons listed in the previous chapter. I was going to join it but thought it better this way. Thanks for reading, hope you're enjoying it. Unless I get some serious writing done before I go away, I most likely won't update for another two weeks, so for anyone waiting, a little teaser;**

_**They are beautiful, in the way that the birth of a human is beautiful, that unity and compassion in times of despair is beautiful. For the brown orbs were, despite the vitriolic circumstances, innocent; entirely. **_

**Happy New Years Eve everyone xx**


	8. Chapter 8

**I do not own the Hunger Games**

* * *

The sun is weak when I wake, slightly damp from dew yet with all limbs and blood fully intact. I hastily stuff my untie my blanket and stuff it in my backpack, but I leave the rest of my structure untouched. Today I plan to prepare and stocktake – gathering food, camouflaging, day progress' to grow steadily hotter as the sun continues it's ascent. Though dark and a few degrees cooler than the canopy, I make fast work whilst gathering materials on the forest floor, anxious to return to the relative safety of my camp. Perched a top my mat, I make fast work of a collection of sticks, rock and rope. I weave small baskets from vines with lids that I can fasten, filling each with berries and large nuts that I recognised from the edible plants section at training. Using dirt, leaf litter, and very small amounts of water, I smother mud and debris down my bare arms, along with the majority of my face and the surface of my backpack. I also make a spear. Although there was a plethora at the cornucopia, most likely stockpiled by Otto and his buddies, to go back their in search of one would be stupid. Besides, never in District Four did we have those fancy metal contraptions – we had the wood which offered better grip, sharpened stones and skill. So I lay on my mat, scratching away at various stones to make spears and small daggers.

Throughout the day there is only one boom, and the coming of night reveals that the the girl from district eleven will be going home in a wooden box.

* * *

I wake up to snapping twigs.

Pushed leaves and slapping feet and

ragged breaths.

And then I hear them. Raucous and loud and entirely too gleeful. Hyenas as they stalk their prey, anticipating and utterly confident.

I sit up.

Who the hell is the prey?

Quickly I stuff any of my essential items into my backpack, blanket, bowls of food, anything of consequence.

And even though this is a menial version of my fears, where I am cut and pierced and tortured, I can not keep from heaving shallow breaths and allowing my heart to palpitate at the increasing possibility that I am a target. The prey of a hunter.

And then he comes into view.

His pale face is red and dark brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his struggle visible as he plunders through the undergrowth of the floor, intermittently glancing behind him. His spindly legs and arms continue to pump though, and I am momentarily amazed at his determination.

The cat calls are matched to names.

Otto brushes past a fern, eyes wild as both couples from two follow him closely behind, ecstatic at the prospect of a kill.

And it is not right.

I didn't want to kill, or even maim, but heck, if it means this kid will be save, I'll wipeout the majority of the tributes. Because right now the boy, who I think is from three, looks like one of the kids who steps into the orphanage, late at night, with wet cheeks and a ragged stuffed toy clutched to their bosom. He is scared and doubtful, because his whole world has just crashed down on him, and he has no idea what to do.

Quickly, I delve my hand into a hollow of the trunk, retrieving multiple sharpened rocks that I had previously stashed away as a precaution. With one of them I punch a hole into tree, watching as sap begins to form. I chance a glance down to the forest floor, but they are not there yet. My chest is heaving erratically as I swipe some of the sap onto the rock and fix a stick from my mat onto the end. It's a pathetic excuse for a spear, and won't last more than three minutes, but I can't risk using my good spears. Just as the boy comes into view again, followed closely by Otto, one and two, I straddle the branch and position the spear.

And all of a sudden it hits me. That I'm going to kill. That I'm going to cause devastation. That I am going to end a live. And although it is completely different to my previous fears, where I put another in danger for me, although I am only trying to protect the kid, it still hurts.

So I shift slightly and let the spear fly.

It hits the boy's foot, right on target, and he emits a howling shriek as he begins to stumble, as I anticipated. I don't want to kill. Just seriously maim to the point of immobility. In quick succession, I let three other of the spears fly, hitting the other girl from two and both from one, before quickly hugging the tree again. I can see Otto searching amongst the foliage as to where the spears came from, his own drawn and pointed to the trees, yet he passes my cover without a second glance. I sink back down onto the branches, a small smile on my face. The boy got away.

Then there is a rustle.

A creak.

A repositioning.

I freeze.

There is a hand, darting into my peripheral vision and clamping onto my mouth.

Quickly, I turn around and there is a freckled face. Our eyes lock, searching each other as if to convey some deep thought, and slowly, the boy lets go.

"What the hell are you going up here?!" I whisper.

Because straddled next to me is the boy from three; Ade.

* * *

I snatch my pack and scramble further up the tree, eyeing the boy warily as I do so.

"Hey!" he hollers, before hastily slapping his hand to his mouth.

This boy is cute, yes, and from the moment I saw him sprinting away from Otto and his gang I felt an instant protection of him, as though I didn't necessarily want to help him, but rather needed to.

But by god. He's got shit for brains at the moment.

Simultaneously we peer down to the group below, watching as they search the trees with a renewed vigour. I close my eyes and hug the tree, praying that the mud I smeared over myself would help camouflage me. The boy from three though? He's still peering down through the foliage, clear as day to any hungry killer situated below.

I grit my teeth.

"Ade."

"Yeah," he replies, tone only subtly softer than before.

"Get back."  
"What?"

A knife lands with a thud against the bottom of Ade's branch.

"GET BACK!" I holler.

Ade scrambles back in compliance, fingers shaking as he grasps the trunk next to me. In quick succession, three more knives can be heard being embedded into the wood of the branch. A cackle of a laugh emanates from below as the five rejoice prematurely.

"What're you doing up there, hey?"

The District Two girl's voice is high and teasing, a tone that would be expected to be heard in the school yard from the vindictive bully.

Only this isn't school. This is death.

Another knife can be heard thudding into a branch three below us, and I breath I sigh of relief. Perched on the trunk where we are, it will be near impossible for them to reach us with weaponry due to the angle. Obviously though, such a thought has not occurred to Ade, his eyes scrunched and knuckles stretched and white. Impetuously, I grasp them.

"Hey," I probe, "Ade. Look at me."  
Imperceptibly he shakes his head.

"Ade. We are going to be okay. Now look at me."  
Slowly, he opens his eyes, and for a moment, I stare at them. They are beautiful, in the way that the birth of a human is beautiful, that unity and compassion in times of despair is beautiful. For the brown orbs were, despite the vitriolic circumstances, innocent; entirely.

And in that moment, I saw real beauty. Raw and true.

"They can't get us here, Ade. We're safe."

He nodded, eyes still wide, fingers now tightly entwined with my own. I produce a small grin.

"We're just going to wait it out now until they get bored."

A thunk reverberates through the tree and I curiously look down.

There is a twisted snarl and a thick hand and a sharpened spear. My blood runs cold. For although the five may not be able to attack from ground, they sure as hell can climb a tree.

* * *

Splinters attack my hands as if in favour of the hunters below, yet I persist forward, breaths laboured and quads throbbing, immune to such frivolous pains. It's Otto that's chasing us, several spears in hand as he intermittently pauses in his scaling of the trunk to wrap his legs around it and lean as far back as possible in order to try and get a shot at us.

"Mags!" Ade cries, as an spear comes hurtling past my head. Yet we continue upwards till the trunk becomes too unstable, wobbling under our weight as if deciding whether to keep or kill. Ade turns to me with fearful eyes; fearful yet resolute.

"I'm gonna jump."

"What!" I exclaim.

Otto is probably four metres below us at the moment, and the rest of his gang are all perched, ready, at the base of the tree.

"Ade, we can't jump. They'd get us for sure."

His voice is shaky when he replies.

"I didn't say you, Mags. Me. I'm going to jump. I'll knock out the brute, distract one and two, then you can get away."

I close my eyes and shake my head because no, no, no.

This is not happening.

And yet I see no other way.

My eyes are stinging as I watch Ade adjust himself on the trunk. I've known this kid for all of fifteen minutes, yet he has made a bigger impression on me than most. He is brave, he is selfless, he is smart. And I didn't save him so that I could have front row seats to his persecution and ultimate death.

And in my entire twelve years, I was never as sure of myself as I am now, when I hastily step infront of Ade and pin him to the tree.

"You. Are. Not. Dying," I say. Because he can't he won't.

"Not today, not ever. You and I, we're gonna live. We're gonna win together, you and me, then you're gonna take me to District three and you'll teach me how to make gadgets, and I'll take you to District Four, and you'll learn to swim."

Otto is three metres away, my voice is cracked and for the first time in my life, tears are running down my cheeks, pouring as they do from Ade's.

"We can't, Mags. We just can't ..." he whispers as his eyes search mine, and I can only hope that in that moment he sees some of his own eyes in there; the innocence and the beauty.

"No but we can," I shake him, "We can and we will. Because we're in this together."

He relaxes slightly and gives me a watery smile.

Otto is two metres away.

"We'll be in heaven," he says, voice full yet sadness obvious. I don't know if you could describe his tone as sad though. It surpasses that, ventures into territory no living man has felt.

I smile too, because he knows what I mean. We will win in our deaths. We will go to our districts and we will see the metal and the ocean with gashes in our heads and our hands entwined.

Otto is one metre from our feet.

Ade pulls me into a hug, strong and fierce, and I willingly comply.

It's not a romantic hug, of any kind, but rather one of desperation and longing.

For we are twelve and thirteen years old.

And we are going to die.

* * *

It's the snapping of twigs that emanate from below that bring me out of my pre-death state of reverie. With trepidation both Ade and I ease our eyes open, and the sight that greets us brings a smile to my face.

For Otto is less than a metre away from us.

And too heavy to continue any further without the top of the tree snapping.

Otto opens his mouth and lets out stream of expletives, many unknown to my vocabulary, of which I had previously prided myself on. Though I only see the moving of his mouth, for two hands are clamped over my ears. I look up to Ade, touched by the thoughtful yet fruitless gesture. He's worried about me hearing such words when moments ago we were conversing about our deaths.

But frankly?

I do not give a shit.

A lone laugh rips through the relative silence, and after a surprised look from both Ade, he joins in. Because we are alive, and we are together.

* * *

Sharp protrusions scrap my hands and leaves gift me with whiplash. I cackle in glee and Ade reciprocates from behind as we swing from branch to branch. After the severity of our experience, I think we've both resolved to enjoy our time in the arena, however pathetic it sounds, for we have a matter of days to live.

So why not spend them smiling?

The five, as our previous attackers have become to be known, are chasing us on foot, manoeuvring the thick branches and shrubbery that scatter the forest floor. Several arrows, knives and spears have been sent in our direction, though none successful. The varied curses and obscenities directed at us only serve to fuel Ade and my delirium, as we occasionally fire our own arsenal of verbal taunts and teases. Eventually they stop the chase, too tired, too far from camp and too eager to shed blood, so we set up camp in the a thick tree, after watching the pursuers fade into the forest. As the sun progress' steadily over a clear sky, we talk in hushed whispers. Ade's thirteen. He's from the District three orphanage, of which could be concluded from his rally of support the previous night, and he has a knack for technology, although as such would be assumed. And lying head to head on the branch mat, I tell him as much too.

Though we don't stop there. We talk of our parents. Of the blood and gore of the Dark Days, the suffering and the aching. One that clawed it's way into your body and pitted everything of seeming worth. We talked of our District's and their features, disclosing more than what would be deemed acceptable to broadcast to the nation. And we talk of our hopes. Our dreams. Our aspirations. Or, what was of them. He tells me of a girl named Lilya, whom he had always fancied. Said that although she had no idea, he fully intended to marry her and bring two other little Lilya's into the world. And with slightly tinged cheeks he continued to gaze into the canopy, stating;

"Though, I don't think I fancy Lilya anymore. I met another girl who's much smarter and caring and pretty."

A faint blush spreads over my cheeks as his clammy hand finds it's way to mine, completely unlike to Regin's in the sense that this makes me feel alive.

I like it.

So I tell Ade some of my stories. Close to my heart. Of Matron and the sea. Of my intention to never ever marry and never ever have children, purely for the reason that none of the District four boys are good for me.

"They're either real hot but real dumb, or real smart but real ugly." I produce a sly grin, "You know what I mean, Ade? You got to have a good mix."

There's silence for a few moments before he speaks.

"Do you reckon I'm a good mix?"

I turn slightly, and without abandon, reach up and kiss his cheek, watching as he grows slightly red.

Wordlessly, I nod my head.

Yes Ade. You make a perfect mix.

* * *

**Thanks for reading :)**

**It's not as long as I anticipated, but I've gone through a bit of a craze with this story and wanted to get everything down, despite saying a few times I wouldn't be updating for a while. Sorry!**

**I hope you guys like Ade :) I know his introduction is a bit rushed, but I just kinda came up with him when I was writing and thought it added a cute touch. I also wrote a little piece about him and his interactions with Mags, though I won't post it yet for it contains a few spoilers for later in the story. If you want a preview for the first bit of it thought feel free to PM or review within the next few days.**

**Sorry for the ridiculously long note, thanks for all the lovely messages and have a great holiday! **


	9. Chapter 9

**I do not own the Hunger Games**

* * *

It is dark.

The dark of night. Of evil and desperation and cold blooded killing.

Two canons sound, each within seconds of each other.

Two more mama's weeping.

And Ade and I grip each other.

Knuckles white and teeth on edge. Is it bad that we're glad those canon's aren't for us? That, secretly, in a part of ourselves we'd never dare voice, we are glad of our lives and therefore, glad of their deaths?

* * *

This morning when I woke up, the first thing I noticed was Ade, and how, inadvertently, I had come to use his chest as a pillow of sorts at some point of the night. The second thing I noticed was my proximity to Ade's underarms. And the third?

The stench.

One only two kids dangling on the precipice of adulthood could conjure, which on another date I would marvel at, because the potency was something to be awed, yet at current, I preferred to have clear sinuses. Who would want to go to their deathbed with our fetor up their noses anyway?

And after quick whiffs and appalled faces of agreement, Ade and I agree to set off for water. Both our canteens and states of hygiene needed it.

"You see any water when going through the forest?" I ask whilst we pack up our materials into our packs.

"Uhh … Yeah. Yeah, a waterfall. 18 metres in height. Comes down into a pool that spans about 30 metres from the base and is about 10 metres wide."

I flash Ade a grin, before straightening my legs momentarily and launching off our branch, down to the floor.

"Well come on then, let's get to it. Which way?"

But Ade doesn't move, but rather continues to sit in his squat position on our branch, braced against the trunk.

"Mags. We can't go to the waterfall."

I blink.

"Why not?" I holler, voice curling towards the end in a manner that is distinctly girlish. I hate when my voice does that – curl somewhat to sound as if I'm whining.

"Well, ah. It's dangerous. I don't want to put you in danger."

For a minute, I stare at Ade in bewilderment. And then I set off.

"Wait! Wait!" he calls, and from behind I can hear the distinct slaps of wood against flesh as he tries to scramble down the trunk in haste. Unsuccessfully, at that. No doubt he is a cacophony of flailing limbs and a mind plagued by indecision as to whether let go and drop the measly 30 cm to the next branch.

"Mags!" he puffs, as he lands with a thud, but I keep on moving. I'm thirsty, and there is a waterfall in this arena, so any danger, protestations or tribunal fears of Ade be damned because I'm going to reach it.

"Ma-gs!" he says, tone lilting as if to tease me.

"What?" I snap as I spin on my heels to face him, still at the base of the tree.

"The waterfall's that way," he deadpans, right arm rising to point outwards.

I sigh in frustration before heading in the direction indicated.

"Oh, wait. Maybe it's the other way," he muses, turning around in a small circle and assessing the forest as if a path would suddenly appear.

I glare at Ade, a frustration roiling in the pits of my stomach as his stupid face continues to utilise that stupid expression that I suppose is Ade's attempt at looking thoughtful.

I curse.

I've got wit.

I can think and do on the spot. I can run and jump and hide and evade; a skill that many would deem essential in surviving such games. Ade though? Ade has a brain.

A fully developed, smart brain.

I stopped going to school at ten. Wasn't learning anything except fishing skills, how to hide under the desk when the Peacekeepers ran past and how damn bloody good the Capitol was, so I decided to stop. Turned up in the morning, got my name marked off so no one would get nosy, then walked down the streets, past the brutality of the Dark Days and into the sea. And I would swim, under and over waves, sometimes floating on top and staring down to the bottom, wondering if I should dive down to the bottom, never come up.

Ade didn't though. He sat in a brimming classroom everyday for six days a week, eight till four, and he learnt about science, gadgets, the world.

I don't honestly know if such could be classified as a burden or gift.

In the Hunger Games, I guess many would suggest a burden, because what is a knowledge of electricity going to do in the arena? But I guess what many overlook, what I overlook, is just how developed one's brain is.

Because Ade can manipulate. Use his precise and definite knowledge of trivial aspects of the arena against an enemy.

So even though I am slightly pissed of being usurped, I can't help but produce a small grin.

Ade smirks.

My grin vanishes.

So does Ade's smirk, after my hand connects with his cheek.

I'm still Mags Kolp, after all.

"Okay, _Ade_. Please do tell me, where is this elusive waterfall _and_, how, pray tell, is it so dangerous that your poor balls shake in it's mention?"

He gawks, confound by my frank remark, and I can only smirk.

Despite being where we are now, it feels good to joke, however derogative and crude, with someone else. With a friend. But only for a moment does Ade fix his expression into a smile, before resorting to a grimace.

And I know that it's not just Ade; that it's not trivial fears of deep water or cannibalistic fish that send a worry into his eyes.

"It's their camp, Mags."  
"What?"

"The careers. They've set up camp at the waterfall."

* * *

It's beautiful, the waterfall.

Falling off a sheer cliff face of paling rock; glints of the water capture the sun, holding it in place and teasing it, playing with it to priduce a beauty unaparalled. I guess one may view such a, for lack of a better term, 'relationship', between the water and sun demanding, that the water is somewhat wicked in it's retaining of the beams of sunlight.

I think otherwise.

I think it's pure, the water and sunlight cooperating to create the best of a situation. Like Ade and I. The girl shrieks yet again, and I grit my teeth.

Ignore her; study.

Ade's description of the pool at the base of the waterfall was accurate, although there was never any reason to doubt as such. A cerulean colour, varying at random intervals to deeper and lighter shades as the floor dipped in depths or is smothered by rock and weed.

I take a deep breath, smiling.

It smells like home.

Ade squeezes my hand, a small grin adorning his face as well.

And for a moment I forget about our situation, our current mission, of which I seem to do all too often lately, and I lean into Ade for a hug. This is the water, this is home. And I feel that by being here, I can show Ade a part of the real me.

The girl shrieks again.

I pull away abruptly.

Bloody hell.

I tug on Ade's sleeve.

"You done?"

He nods wordlessly and together we scramble further up the tree, away from the thinning foliage until completely surrounded by an emerald green.

"The cliff," Ade begins as we share our findings, "It's uneven; lots of indentations and protrusions."

"So ..."

"So I reckon we should climb it. We know the waterfall's artificial, so if we see how it's being produced, we could maybe stop it. Gather all our water based supplies beforehand and hit them hard."

After our debacle at our previous campsite, Ade reluctantly agreed to come with me to the waterfall. I reasoned that if we stayed in the trees, far enough away that we can't be reached by weapons, but close enough to monitor the group's activities and their surroundings. Which, so far, has entitled the District Two girl vocalising her distaste for Sapphirety, the District One girl, who hasn't apparently been pulling her weight.

There's only three of them now, both girls and Otto. I shudder to think of how the boys from one and two would've died.

"So what do we do now?" I say.

"Listen. Listen, and wait."

* * *

The sun has just begun to dip below the horizon when the careers finally leave. Ade labelled them as such earlier, for their flair of incorporating their what would be their work skills and implementing them in the most lethal aspect in the arena. It fits. They are so absorbed in themselves and the physical element of the games that come time for them to go for their 'night hunt', as they so put it, no guard or security measure is left to protect what they have.

Ade and I wait ten minutes after they left before jumping down, Ade going to rifle through their gear whilst I go fill our canteens and try and catch some fish. It should be easy, spearing fish; I've practiced all my life. Yet as I life the spear and begin to follow the fish with it slowly, readying myself to let it fly, I can't seem to concentrate.

And then I hear it.

The buzzing, whirring, creaking sound.

The cameras.

They're peppered throughout the arena, attached to trees, embedded within the ground and, in areas such as these, where there is a wide clearing, suspended on several wires that are only visible in the light when the sun catches them. They're not big, but they're definitely not small either, about the size of a matchbox. And two are currently moving overhead, swivelling to catch both Ade and my movements.

I shouldn't bother me. After all, the entire arena is being recorded and televised. I guess what's nagging me is why us?

I've felt the cameras on my back numerous times, and that's no surprise, as every tributes movements are documented, but I am near certain that Ade and mine would be less. After all, we are thirteen and twelve respectively, with no major skills other than quick brains and a decent shot. Aside from our previous encounter with the careers, our time in the arena has been uneventful, dull.

To be frank, we have been boring.

So why are two cameras on us now?

"Ade?" I call softly, averting my gaze from the fish to him, surrounded by food and spare weapons.

"Mm?" he replies, but continues in his rummaging, conjuring and awful lot of noise as metal clangs against metal.

"Ade," I say more forcefully, "Ade, for god sakes, shut up!"

He stops.

The waterfall rushes in our ears and the camera still whirs, but I know that there is something out there, something we've missed in this elaborate mission of ours.

What we are doing isn't so riveting that it warrants various cameras on us. So why are there two? Actually, three?

I lower my spear.

"Ade, run."

And my feet are splashing through the water, dashing any hope of Ade's for a fish dinner, but we need to move. When I get to the shore though, Ade is still motionless.

"What the hell, Ade? Move it!" I say, struggling to keep my voice low. I grasp his arm tightly and yank him towards the forest, but instead he yanks me back. He is surprisingly strong for his lanky and wiry frame.

"The rocks. We've got to climb the rocks."

And even though I think we've got more of a chance going to the trees, I follow Ade because he know's what he's doing. He's the brains.

Ade reaches the cliff face and instead of ascending, he tentatively walks into the pool of water, grasping the rock.

"Ade?"

"We've got a better chance of hiding in the waterfall," he mutters, continuing to grip the wall, so tight that his knuckles shine white. I can hear them now, careless footsteps and cackles of glee that draw closer and closer.

It's not our activities that the cameras wanted to witness. It was a fight.

It was our deaths.

I look back to Ade, the sheer terror clear on his face. He takes another step. It's not the people though.

"You can't swim, can you?" I say softly, and his head drops as if in shame.

He's ashamed? Cos he can't swim?

"Hey, hey," I say, forcing him to look me in the eyes by lifting his chin. His eyes are sad, as if suddenly I'd think less of him for being who he is. "I don't care if you can't swim," I say firmly, "You are still Ade, and I do not like you any less because you can't do something. You think I can program robots or complete advanced science courses. Hell, I didn't even really know what science was before you told me. So don't be ashamed."

He smiles then, a small one, that conveys so much. It says thank you.

Then there is a crashing.

"Trust me." I whisper in his ear, before grabbing his waist and diving into the water. Into the bottom of the waterfall.

It's arduous. To swim on my own, I would be competent, yet Ade is grasped under my arm, eyes wide and mouth open. 'You can't breath underwater', I want to tell him, but my mind is preoccupied, fixed on breaking the surface whilst the waterfall pummels us, forcing us down, down. I release Ade and swim deeper, and instantly he becomes panicked, flailing his arms and trying to grasp my legs as I manoeuvre myself to be positioned under his behind. With a heave, I push him upwards, kicking hard and stretching my arms till finally I feel him break to the surface, grasping onto the rock ledges behind the waterfall.

His arm dips down and grips onto my own, helping me haul myself up to the rock as well.

We're panting, chests heaving and hair matted to foreheads in wet clumps. But there is a certain light in our eyes, shining.

"Thank you," Ade mutters.

"Thank you for trusting me," I return.

And then his mouth is on my cheek, quick and swift but definite.

Warm and definite.

In this alliance, I'm the confident one. Stupid at times as a result, yes, but nevertheless, if one of us were to stick our hand in the bee's hive, it would be me. So maybe that's why Ade's kiss feels all the more special. Because he doesn't often make himself vulnerable. Because he truly meant it.

Another loud clang resounds from beyond the waterfall, and I surmise that whoever has come to the clearing must now be picking through the career's loot as we were before. By now, the sun has well and truly set, and although remnants of it's day are still present in the sky, in pastel hues that bleed from pink to orange to blue, I know it is only a matter of time before the dark stakes war, and the night roams free.

And with the night, is the cold.

The soft muffles of voices and clanging continue, yet there is no way of seeing who, or potentially what, it is through the multiple layers of water dividing us. We can't be seen. Can't be heard. But we need to move, lest of all we contract hypothermia. We don't have the energy for hyperthermia, nor the time.

"Ade, we need to move," I say, looking at the curvature of the waterfall as it smashes againsnt the water, less than thirty centimetres from my nose.

I can feel the cold now. Brittle and hard. It is unforgiving, ruthless as it seeps into my clothes, my skin, my bones. Just like everything else in this god forsaken place.

"Ade -" I start again, looking to my right.

But there is blue. Not the blue of a reflection on Ade's face, just the blue of water.

Nothing else.

Shit.

"Ade!" I breathe, chest beginning to heave as I look below to my feet, but the water provides no window, just the white churning of water.

No. No. No.

He can't be gone. Not like this, not like that

Not

now.

Because I need him. I need him.

I take a deep breath, telling myself that the droplet of water on my cheek is the water, not a tear, and I propel myself down.

I stop. Am pulled back to the top of the water. A hand clamps on my mouth.

"Where you going?" Ade says, a small smile on his face.

I pull away, splashing water into his face and smirking as he gags.

"What were you thinking?" I say, tone reverting to serious. But Ade only smiles again.

"You said to move. Why not move up?"

The climb proves easier to what I had originally thought. The rock is slippery underfoot, credit to the mist of the waterfall, yet not so much that one can't climb comfortably. Besides, climbing rock faces like this is what District Four kids grow up doing. How else would one reach the secluded beaches or hidden rock pools? What other activities are there that allowed us both the have fun and escape the oppression of the Dark Days and it's subsequent aftermath. Ade seems to be holding his own too, though no doubt his extended limbs would've helped him.

We stop about three metres from the top, in a small cave like structure. It's only one or two metres in depth, and we have to crouch down to fit, but it's a perfect spot to rest. It's length too, is an attribute, for it spans the entire width of the waterfall and then some more, enabling us to peek out to whomever is currently at the career's goods. So we do; have a look, that is.

And it's Otto.

But he's not with the District One and Two girls. No, he is with Jerome Hanson, the boy from one.

They're sitting by the lack, leaning back on two packs as Otto sharpens a spear with a rock and Jerome shakes his hands in the shallows of he water.

It turns a scarlet colour.

Blood.

I scramble back into the cave, to Ade's curious expression.

"What? What is it?"

"Otto. Otto and Jerome, the boy from one."  
"Mags?" Ade says, concern etched into his features.

"Jerome's hand was red. It was covered with blood."

And that's all I can say for the moment, because a canon hasn't gone all day, and a murderer is washing his hands, as if washing them fixes everything.

Ade's arms encase my own and pull me onto his chest.

This though? This embrace, and this friendship? Although it doesn't fix everything, it fixes a lot.

* * *

"You promise not to look?"

"Swear on my life."

"You sure?"

I smile.

This is why Ade is my ally.

"Trust me, Ade," I say, my back to him. "They're underpants. It's not as though you're baring all for that sweet little Lilya back home."

"Ha. Ha," he deadpans, but only a few seconds later I hear a splash.

This morning we woke up to find the clearing the District one and two girls wandering around the clearing, cursing that fish-ass-of-an-ugly-face Otto. There was more 'shriekage', and a considerable workout of profanities. From the scene, we were able to gather that the District Two boy had died in one of their escapades, and after conspiring with Otto, Jerome went out to get food one day, and never came back. Now the two boys had the entirety of the loot and the girls only the weapons they carried last night.

The good thing though? Otto and Jerome probably won't come back to the waterfall, for it's the easiest place for the girls to target them. And the girls being the angered beings they are, set off shortly after their discovery for revenge.

We have the waterfall all to ourselves.

After scrabbling down the rock face and retrieving some essentials from our packs which we had hidden in one of the trees on the edge of the clearing, we ate, and then decided to wash.

Which is where we are now.

"Oh Ade -" I say, feigning to turn around, only to be met with a wave of objections.

"Don't turn around! You said you wouldn't, don't look Mags, don't look!"

I descend into a fit of giggles, though still facing away from Ade.

"I'm sorry, sorry," I say, trying to mask my laughter, "but, you're still- you're still in your underwear!"

And I can't help it. I'm laughing uncontrollably. Not necessarily because of Ade's self consciousness, but rather how endearing he is. At home, both children and adults alike wander round in cozzies that leave little to the imagination, but it isn't deemed as inappropriate or promiscuous. And why would it, when the majority of your waking hours are spent in the water?

A few minutes later, a dripping, yet full clothed Ade sidles up beside me.

"I don't see what's so funny," he grumbles, taking the pack of me and gesturing for me to jump in. I do so, stripping off to my underwear without a second thought and diving into the depths of the water.

It would be so easy to stop my legs, ignore the need for oxygen and sink. But I couldn't do that to Ade, lest of all myself. I couldn't succumb to the Capitol. So instead I swim a little deeper and hold my breath for a little longer, closing my eyes and listening.

Underwater sights are beautiful, but I don't think anyone really appreciates the sounds. At home, the whoosh of the wave or clicking of crabs as they scuttled across complex rock pools. And here, the sound of water fighting against water.

Maybe the Capitol is like the waterfall, and the people of Panem the water.

From a distance, the waterfall's beautiful, but up close, it's apparent it's a lot of water gone wrong. It's harsh and it's relentless and it holds no capacity for life. It pushes the pool below. It pushes and pushes till it's displaced to a degree. It still survives though, it always survives. The actual pool of water beneath though; there is an inexplicable beauty, simplistic and pure. Unassuming at first, the pool holds the greatness of possibility. It holds seaweeds that dance along the floor, fish that dart and glide and sail. It holds _life_.

The waterfall and pool below though are still the same. They're _water_. Still chemically bound and what not by the same chemicals. Just as the Capitol and District's are still human.

Given the chance, the water from the waterfall eventually evens out to become part of the pool. Maybe the people of the Capitol would even out too, if they were deprived of the poison feed by authorities. The poison that dictates good and bad, introduces castes and discrimination.

So were do the authorities, the dictators go?

They are the rock. Pushing the water over the edge.

I push of the ground, break the water. I breathe. Like I did the first day I arrived in the Capitol.

I breathe.

I breathe.

I breathe.

Only now it feels different, as I gaze over to Ade, scanning the edge of the forest for any suspected threats with a scrutiny so intense it's comical. The day I arrived at the Capitol, I was savoring my breaths, counting them.

Getting ready to die.

I'm not delusional. The chances of me winning these games, even at the current figures, with fifteen dead and only nine standing, are near non-existent, and even if it were to come down to that, I wouldn't be physically, nor mentally equipped to kill Ade.

But still, I'm now not counting my breaths. I'm taking deep gulps and acknowledging that I'm in a shitty situation. A shitty situation with the world's non-shittiest friend.

There was this guy that ran round the streets of District Four towards the end of the Dark Days, a real activist against the Capitol. Kind of like a hero amongst the people, he was the first one in protest lines, and the last one to be found at the end of the day. It was two weeks before the war ended that they got him. Tied him up, gathered everyone present in every building within a 500 metre radius of the town square, which included the orphanage, and shot him dead. Through the brain and out the other end. But this guy though, he would run down the streets with bullets flying past his ears, shrieking:

"Get busy living, or get busy dying."

And as I emerge from the water, dry off, and shimmy back into my clothes, I decide I've had enough of preparing to die. On a whim, I run over to Ade and jump on his back, laughing as he stumbles slightly and curses as my wet hair drips onto his shirt. He's smiling though. A real smile.

We should be watching the trees. Gathering food and sharpening my spears.

But I'm busy living.

* * *

**Thank for reading. **

**The line 'Get busy living, or get busy dying' is actually a quote from the movie Shawshank Redemption, which I don't own either, but is an exceptionally good movie. **

**Sorry for the ridiculously long wait, and I'm sorry for any grammatical errors, but I just wanted to get it up :)**

**Last, but not least, despite my original "I'll post at least every fortnight," updates are going to be a lot less frequent. I was kinda in a first story on fanfiction ecstasy when I wrote that, and now school and sport's coming back I'll be a lot more busy. But I won't abandon this story though!**

**Enough of my rambling, thanks again! R&R ;)**


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